


dance with somebody

by everwitch



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Also Romance, Awkward Flirting, Canon Compliant, Captain Dex, Coming Out, Dex can relate, Everything inbetween, Found Family, Getting Together, It'll pass, M/M, Many pivotal conversations, Post-Canon, Some angst, Some mentions of internalized homophobia, Something not entirely unlike a friendship ensues, Whiskey has a lot of emotions he's trying not to show, a whole lot of scones, legends only, literal and figurative, soulsearching, unsupportive family members
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:08:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 47,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23733625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everwitch/pseuds/everwitch
Summary: It’s a whole new season for Samwell men’s hockey, with plenty of new difficulties. Dex is struggling to stay on top of things as their newly minted captain, while also navigating new territory in his and Nursey’s relationship – which is so good, and sometimes even wonderful, but still just alot.Meanwhile, something isdefinitelyup with Whiskey, and it’s either got something to do with that cute boy in his statistics class, or the increased attention from those NHL scouts. Either way, Dex thinks he just might know how to give Whiskey a push in the right direction. Sometimes, the best way to take care of yourself is by having others to care for, too.Still, it’s one tough season, filled with expectations to meet, traditions to uphold and an unexpected abundance of scones. Between classes and practice and kegsters, there’s only so much time to stop and think and feel. As Dex and Whiskey continue on their own paths, their journeys often intertwining in moments of friendship and trust, they both find out what it really means to have someone’s back, but also how difficult it can be to stay true to yourself. What happens when you need to make a choice between who you are, and who you’ve always wanted to be?
Relationships: Chris "Chowder" Chow & Derek "Nursey" Nurse & William "Dex" Poindexter, Connor "Whiskey" Whisk/Original Male Character(s), Denice "Foxtrot" Ford & Tony "Tango" Tangredi & Connor "Whiskey" Whisk, Derek "Nursey" Nurse/William "Dex" Poindexter, William "Dex" Poindexter & Connor "Whiskey" Whisk
Comments: 356
Kudos: 368





	1. kegster

It’s the first kegster of his senior year, the first kegster after his first fucking  _ win  _ as captain of the Samwell Men's Hockey Team, and Dex just-

Dex needs a moment.

The porch is empty. Dex settles down, sets aside his half-empty can of beer. Looks down the road of frat houses, all in various stages of Saturday night festivities. The water polo frat, Dex thinks, is gonna have one hell of a post party cleanup.

Inside the Haus, someone’s put on  _ I wanna dance with somebody. _ Dex almost smiles.

It’s maybe a little weird, how he doesn’t even have to be in there to know exactly what’s going on.

Bully and Hops are dancing, and Louis is definitely not. He’ll be off in a corner, talking to whoever will listen (Whiskey, most likely, since he’s always off to the side if he can help it) about how he can’t understand why he hasn’t been appointed officially in charge of all kegster playlists, yet. Tango, meanwhile, is probably still trying to get Farmer and her friends to explain all the rules of volleyball, in detail, unless Ford has staged her usual intervention. Chowder will be wherever Farmer is, the Scones are still riding that sweet, sweet high of their first NCAA victory… And then there’s Nursey.

Somehow, there’s always Nursey.

He’s there in the early mornings, when Dex thinks he’ll hit the gym before anyone else, his smiles casual and his chirps gentle. He shows up every so often when Dex gets out of class, with Dex’s favourite flat white from Annie’s and a wry smile, and drags Dex along to Founders where they’ll sit together in near silence and mostly not study. Or, actually, Nursey kind of studies for real. Dex… Well.

Lately, Dex can't say he's been all that productive, when Nursey is around.

It really shouldn’t feel as novel as it does. The elements of a crush were always there. If Dex hadn’t meticulously labeled those flaring emotions as something entirely different, those first couple of years, the two of them might've gotten here a whole lot sooner.

Because they’re finally kind of getting somewhere, aren’t they? Unless Dex has been reading Nursey completely wrong, lately. Except he can’t have, not really – the way Nursey’s been staying so close to him, out of choice, those soft smiles and clearly intentional touches. Earlier that same evening, Nursey had let his hand rest on the small of Dex’s back, gently and deliberately and not for the first time. Dex isn’t actually sure what might've happened between them if he’d turned towards Nursey, just then, and met his eyes directly.

Maybe, Dex thinks, he’s finally ready to find that out. To take that leap. See where they land.

The door opens, then closes.

“Hey. Sorry if I’m bothering you.”

Dex turns around, offers a brief smile. He nods towards the empty space next to him.

Whiskey walks over, and sits down.

Dex picks up his can of beer and holds it up towards Whiskey.

“Really good game, tonight.”

Whiskey clinks his bottle against it, almost dutifully.

Dex takes a long drink. Whiskey drinks, too. He’s quiet, which is completely on brand, yet for some reason he seems a little more restless than usually.

“You baked pie,” Whiskey says, after a moment.

Which is not what Dex expected, at all. But at least it’s something.

“Did you get a slice?”

“I did, yeah. It was pretty good.”

“Tried my best.” Dex shrugs. “Obviously, I’ll never live up to Bitty’s legendary baking legacy.”

“You don’t have to,” Whiskey says, and then he pauses, as though he’s choosing his words very carefully. “You don’t have to be the same captain Bitty was.”

“Oh, I could never be.” Dex sips his beer. “We’re similar, though, in a lot of ways. I think that’s part of why I’ve come to look up to him so much.”

“That’s… Yeah.” Whiskey looks away. “I mean, I voted for him, too.”

“You got his dibs,” Dex says, and it’s not quite a question. “That’s pretty cool.”

For some reason, that makes Whiskey grimace.

“Honestly? I’m still not sure why.”

Dex looks at Whiskey, then,  _ really  _ looks at him. Finds that the tension he’s so used to seeing in Whiskey’s shoulders isn’t quite there, anymore. Acknowledges that the usually guarded look in Whiskey’s eyes has given way to something tentatively curious, yet still hesitant. Above all, though, Whiskey looks like he’s so, so tired, like there’s something constantly exhausting him. Like every breath of fresh air just leaves him more drained than the one before.

And if that isn’t a feeling Dex finds all too familiar.

“You know, I actually voted for you,” Dex says. “As captain.”

Whiskey startles – no, flinches. Dex has never seen him look so bewildered.

“You bring a lot to this team,” Dex continues firmly. “You make our best plays, and you always look out for everyone on the ice. You don’t make a big fuss about it, but I always know you’re going to have my back, no matter what. You lead by example.”

_ “Bitty _ led by example,” Whiskey says – argues, almost. “By being loud, and proud, and one hundred percent unapologetically himself at all times. And I’m not… That's just not me.”

“You don’t have to be like Bitty, any more than I do,” Dex says, gently. “You know that, right? There’s literally one million other versions of being proud of who you are. It’s okay to find one that you're comfortable with. It’s okay if that takes time.”

Whiskey leans back, abruptly – he looks almost as if he’d very much like to take off, running, rather than acknowledge any part of what Dex has just said. Yet then he stills. Something shifts in his expression.

“You and Nurse,” he says, simply.

Dex draws in a breath. Whiskey is watching him intently.

"I mean, yeah," Dex says. Because somehow, he owes Whiskey this. "Me and Nursey."

Whiskey nods, slowly.

"Huh."

"It's not… We haven't really talked about it, yet."

That makes Whiskey look surprised.

"Some things take time," Dex adds, completely aware of how he’s repeating himself. "And, like, there's no rush. There's not going to be a finish line. No prize for getting there first."

“But you know what you want,” Whiskey says. His voice is a little hoarse, compared to before. “You know who you are.”

“You’ll get there,” Dex says, quietly but firmly. “Whatever that means for you. It’ll be difficult, and it might take time. But you’ll make it through.”

Whiskey merely shrugs.

They’re both quiet for a long moment, after that.

Then Whiskey gets up.

“Think I’m gonna call it a night.”

“Okay.” Dex smiles towards him. “See you at team breakfast, tomorrow?”

“Sure.” Yet Whiskey lingers for a moment, almost if there’s something more he means to say. “Thank you. I mean, for the company.”

“Anytime,” Dex says, and finds that he really means it. “You can always talk to me, Whiskey. About anything.”

Whiskey nods once more, his expression unchanging, before quickly heading inside.

Dex watches him go.

He’d like to keep a much closer eye on Whiskey, from this moment on. He can’t, though. Whiskey would realize immediately. And that’s no good – it’s got to be on Whiskey’s terms, or not at all.

It's something Dex knows from experience.

The door opens again.

It's Nursey.

"Whiskey just came in, looking like, super unchill." Nursey closes the door behind him. "Did something happen?"

"He's a bit stressed, but he's okay."

"Oh. Good, then." Nursey walks over, yet he doesn't sit down. Instead he leans against the banister in a way that’s probably supposed to look casual, and glances towards Dex from the side. “Are you okay, though?”

“Of course I am.”

Nursey frowns. “You seemed a bit out of it, earlier.”

“Earlier tonight?”

“Before the game.”

“Ah,” Dex says. Because of course Nursey would pick up on what Dex had been trying so hard to conceal. On the very reason why he’s come out to the porch, all by himself, while a seriously ‘swasome kegster is still going on inside. “I guess I’m just not really used to it all, yet? The whole captain bit.”

Nursey hums. “You’re not in this alone, you know. You don’t have to go through it alone.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“And, like, if you wanted to have an alternate? You could do that. I’m sure the team would be cool with it.”

“Actually,” Dex says, “I’ve sort of been thinking about that for a while now.”

Nursey grins.

“Oh, man. Chowder’s gonna freak out so hard, when you ask him.”

“What makes you so certain I’m not going to ask you?”

Nursey turns to stare at him, abruptly.

“That’s a joke, right? God,  _ please _ tell me you’re joking.”

“It’s mostly a joke,” Dex admits with a slight grin, and there’s no way he’s gonna pass on the obvious chirp. “Chill, man.”

“You do  _ not  _ get to use that word in this context.” Nursey still looks decidedly unsettled. “Fuck,  _ me? _ The A? Do you have any idea how many papers an English major needs to churn out his senior year?”

“Yeah, you poor baby.”

“Ha, ha. God, I need another drink.”

“There’s someone else I have in mind, actually,” Dex says. That look in Whiskey’s eyes, uncertain yet somehow still so determined, is fresh in his memory. “Someone who could grow into the role, maybe? Someone who needs an opportunity to learn more about themselves, and all they can be.”

Nursey frowns. “It’s not Tango, is it? Because if our pre-game ritual turns into twenty fucking questions, I’m one hundred percent blaming you.”

Dex smiles.

“No. It’s not Tango.”

“Well. Good.”

They’re quiet for a moment. Then Nursey looks over at Dex – really looks at him, meeting his eyes directly – before slowly (and intentionally, one might say) stepping away from the banister and sitting down in the same spot Whiskey occupied, earlier. Except Nursey might be sitting a bit closer to Dex. Maybe a lot closer.

It’s a little bit ridiculous, but does it still make Dex’s heart flutter? Fuck yeah.

“So,” Nursey says, his voice strangely calm –  _ chill, _ even though the way he can’t quite make himself face Dex as he speaks gives him away completely. “Are we ever gonna, y’know. Have this conversation?”

Dex takes a deep breath. Then he reaches out, takes Nursey’s right hand in his. Laces their fingers together, softly yet very deliberately.

“Yeah. I think it’s time we do.”


	2. discreet

Dex takes a deep breath. Then another.

It doesn’t help.

They’re at team breakfast. Dex is arguably listening to Hops, who’s going on about the data management class Dex took his sophomore year that Hops is taking _his_ sophomore year. More importantly, though, Nursey is sitting right next to Dex. He’s quiet, which is basically Nursey’s standard setting in the morning, but every now and then he makes his presence known, leaning slightly on Dex’s shoulder or brushing his hand against Dex’s as he reaches for something across the table.

It’s… Nice, mostly. Except that it’s also confusing. Because really, Nursey could just be holding Dex’s hand. He absolutely could. They’re actually dating now, as opposed to just dancing around the idea of a relationship, and the whole team knows, and everyone is extremely cool with it. Which means that Nursey should have exactly zero reasons to be settling for these frustratingly featherlight, ridiculously careful touches whenever there’s more than one or two teammates around. Really.

And yet, here they are.

From the other end of the table, Dex can feel Whiskey's watchful gaze.

And if _that_ isn’t a whole other fucking conundrum.

It’s been less than two weeks since Dex asked Whiskey to be his alternate. It’s something they’re still both getting used to, perhaps Whiskey especially – Dex isn’t entirely sure that Whiskey has any clue what he’s supposed to actually _do,_ just yet. Still, Dex doesn’t doubt that Whiskey was the right choice. Not even a little bit. Even if Whiskey doesn’t seem to quite believe that himself.

And speaking of things Whiskey doesn’t acknowledge – when Dex glances over to meet his eyes, Whiskey abruptly looks away.

Again.

Almost as if he’s actually convinced himself that Dex hasn’t caught him looking at him and Nursey, yet.

Dex reluctantly shifts his attention back to Hops, who is now in the middle of a longish rant about database management systems. Nursey’s hand brushes softly (and really not very subtly) against Dex’s fingers as Nursey reaches for his cup of coffee. Out of the corner of his eye, Dex spots Whiskey following the movement. Just like before.

Dex takes another deep breath, and forces himself to actually pay attention to Hops.

“You seemed kind of out of it, today.”

They’re walking back to the Haus with the team, except Nursey and Dex are kind of trailing behind everyone else. Nursey is watching Dex from the side. He’s almost frowning.

“Yeah,” Dex admits softly. “I’m just… I feel like there’s a lot going on, right now.”

Nursey hums, and after a quick glance towards the rest of the team, he reaches out to carefully intertwine their fingers.

Fucking _finally._

Dex breathes deeply, in and out. For the first time that day, it actually grounds him somewhat.

“You know, I’ve kind of missed you.”

Nursey’s laughter is soft.

“I’ve literally been right next to you, all morning.”

“Not like this, though,” Dex disagrees. He squeezes Nursey’s hand a little. “This is real nice.”

Nursey grins.

“Sure is.”

“You know,” Dex begins carefully. “If you’d wanted to, like, actually hold my hand at breakfast? You could have done that. That would’ve been fine.”

Nursey slows down a little bit.

“That’s… We’re usually a bit more low key? With the team around, I mean.”

“True,” Dex admits patiently. “But, like, holding hands? Dude. These guys have seen a lot worse than that.”

“Yeah, but it’s just… I dunno.” Suddenly, Nursey looks a bit unsure. “It feels a bit weird when you go into, y’know. Captain mode.”

“Captain mode?” Dex repeats incredulously. It’s only Nursey’s unusually serious expression that keeps him from laughing. “Oh my God. What does that even mean?”

“Chow actually came up with the name – we were talking the other day and realized we had, like, the _exact_ same feelings about this.” Nursey’s almost smiling in a way that Dex isn’t entirely familiar with. “But it’s not really a bad thing? It’s just like, there’s regular Dex, and he’s our best friend, but then there’s _captain_ Dex. And we’re only just getting to know him.”

“Really,” Dex says faintly.

Nursey grins.

“Seems like a great guy, though,” he teases. “Got our backs, y’know? But even so, captain Dex isn’t regular Dex. And I don’t wanna, I dunno. Make everything weird when you’re having captain convos with the Waffles and Scones.”

 _“Captain convos,”_ Dex repeats, a bit hysterically this time. “Oh my God. What the fuck.”

“These shiny new terms are all going in the bylaws, by the way. Tango’s putting together a whole glossary.”

“... Wait. Really?”

“Nah. Kidding.”

Dex rolls his eyes at Nursey’s widening grin.

“Anyway. On the subject of handholding.”

 _“On the subject of,”_ Nursey chirps, looking absolutely delighted. “And they say I’m the English major.”

“I _love_ holding your hand,” Dex soldiers on, because apparently he’s determined to provide Nursey with an endless stream of perfect chirping material. “It’s honestly ridiculous, how much I fucking love it. And for me, it wouldn’t feel weird if we did it more often. Even when we’re hanging out with everyone? But like, if that makes you uncomfortable, it’s cool. We don’t have to. Obviously.”

To Dex’s great relief, Nursey actually pauses to consider that.

“I just don’t want to, like, overstep? Or make things super awkward. I mean, you’re actually my captain, too.”

“I am, yeah.” Dex squeezes Nursey’s hand again. “I can see how that might be difficult to navigate.”

“It’s usually not,” Nursey elaborates. “Like, at practice? Easy. The C’s right there on your jersey. And when we’re alone? Crystal clear. Couldn’t be less confusing. It’s just that in between those two, there’s more than a few gray areas.”

“Huh.” Dex ponders that for a moment. “Well. For what it’s worth, I really do think we could get away with, like. Occasional handholding? When we’re all just hanging out, together.”

“I guess, yeah.”

Dex frowns. Because Nursey still sounds more than a little bit unsure.

“Would it maybe help if I… Promised to let you know if I ever felt like it’s not the right time? If I’m in the middle of a serious talk with someone, or whatever. Then you’d know that you aren’t bothering me, or making anything weird.”

“... Yeah,” Nursey says, after a beat. And this time, his tone is both surprised and… Sort of a little bit hopeful? “Actually, yes, that’d be _so_ great.”

“Okay.” Dex smiles. “Good.”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks for, like. Being open with me about this.”

“Hey, it’s chill.” Nursey grins slightly. “Imagine how proud Shitty would be, if he could hear us right now.”

“He’d cry,” Dex agrees immediately. “Maybe he’s actually crying, right now, because some part of him just _knows.”_

“Entirely possible.”

Nursey tugs at Dex’s hand a little, and it takes Dex a second to realize that Nursey wants him to move closer. He does, and it’s so, _so_ worth it when Nursey’s lips brush softly against Dex’s cheek.

“Noone saw that,” Nursey murmurs, even as he lingers to kiss the corner of Dex’s mouth. “Or that. Noone’s looking.”

“Yeah,” Dex mumbles in agreement, despite the fact that he’s got reason to believe that Nursey is, actually, completely wrong. “We’ve literally just invented being discreet. This is how it works.”

Nursey pulls back again, his smile a little sheepish.

Dex barely glances forward, and sure enough – Whiskey immediately turns around, almost as if he never looked their way in the first place.

Well. Evidently, Whiskey is still… Processing something, at his own pace. Although Dex has a strong feeling that whatever is going on in Whiskey’s mind, it might not actually have much to do with Nursey and Dex, specifically, so much as the idea of, well. Affection? Reciprocation? Or something not entirely unlike it.

That’ll be an intriguing conversation, eventually.

Dex looks back at Nursey, and finds it so easy to return his smile.

“Come on. Let’s go catch up with everyone else.”


	3. six out of two

Whiskey grits his teeth.

He’s studying at Founders, alone. Except, surprisingly, he’s not alone. It’s more than three weeks until midterms, which is why Whiskey hadn’t expected this many students to be hitting the books already. Then again, Whiskey thinks irritably, maybe the real problem is the tiresome fact that most of his fellow students didn’t come to the library to _study,_ precisely.

To his right, there are two boys, most likely freshmen. One of them is hunched over a thick volume on the history of Scandinavian monarchies – more importantly, though, his cheeks are colored by a soft blush. The other boy is pointedly not looking at his notes, at all. He hasn’t, since they sat down. Instead, he’s watching his friend intently – except _friendship_ is clearly a complete understatement, when it comes to this duo.

When Whiskey has caught himself glancing towards them no less than three times, he resolutely moves his chair around his table so that he’s facing in another direction. Which works perfectly, for a short while. Until he realizes that his new view consists of two sorority girls who are passing a note back and forth between giggles, and very obviously holding hands.

Whiskey sighs.

It probably shouldn’t be all that astonishing. After all, this is Samwell. One in four? Try six out of two.

 _Especially_ if you're talking about Samwell Men's Hockey.

Whiskey had genuinely thought that this could be the year when he finally didn’t feel the need to keep a certain distance, between himself and the rest of the team. This year Whiskey was going to live in the Haus, and together they'd all be chasing after that consecutive championship win. It seemed, in so many ways, absolutely perfect.

Until Dex and Nursey happened.

It's not like Whiskey _minds,_ exactly. And really, he should be more than used to this sort of thing by now – bored with it, even. Still, Bitty and Zimmermann never spent the majority of their time hanging out together at the Haus. And like, Whiskey didn't actually _live_ together, with the two of them.

Although maybe, if Whiskey really thinks about it, there's an entirely different reason for why he's suddenly paying all this attention to the couples around him, and the genders included in them.

Because Whiskey never did that, before Matt.

Whiskey doesn’t like to think about the fact that there is a _before_ and an _after_ Matt, now.

They do still text, occasionally. Matt’s a senior this year, and doesn’t have nearly as much free time as he used to. He’s indirectly invited Whiskey to a couple of parties at the lax frat, but so far Whiskey has declined every time – they’ve all overlapped with either away games, or kegsters. And surprisingly, Whiskey doesn’t actually want to skip any kegsters, this year, if he can help it.

Which is not _only_ because he’s somehow ended up with the fucking A.

Matt hasn’t pushed, though. And that's sort of what Whiskey has always liked about Matt, if he thinks about it.

Of course, Whiskey doesn’t think about it.

“Hey. It’s Connor, right?”

Whiskey looks up.

The guy is vaguely familiar – if Whiskey isn’t entirely mistaken, he's in Whiskey's intro to statistics class, Wednesdays and Fridays.

“Yeah. Miguel...?”

That makes Miguel smile.

"Done with the reading, yet?” he inquires, nodding towards the familiar textbook that's laying open in front of Whiskey.

“Almost,” Whiskey replies. “Although I definitely liked last week’s a lot more.”

“Hold up." Miguel has raised both of his eyebrows. "You actually _enjoy_ some part of all this mathematical hocus pocus?”

“Maybe,” Whiskey says, because he’s actually not entirely sure about that himself, just yet. “Ask me again after the final.”

Miguel takes a small step closer, his hand coming to rest lightly on the back of the seat opposite Whiskey’s. For some reason, he’s watching Whiskey kind of curiously.

“Huh.”

“...What?”

“Didn’t know you’re on the hockey team.”

“Oh,” Whiskey says, suddenly very aware of his rather obvious SMH t-shirt. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

“That’s pretty cool,” Miguel says, and he sounds like he means it. “Funny story – I’m on the water polo team. Although between you and me, our team isn’t exactly NCAA championship winning material. That’s why it’s a funny story.”

“... Oh,” Whiskey repeats, because that’s just the kind of extraordinary conversationalist he becomes when faced with something that might, indirectly, be a compliment. “That’s… Cool? I guess.”

For some reason, that makes Miguel smile again. It’s a pretty nice smile, Whiskey realizes belatedly. And the way it makes Miguel’s brown eyes light up a little bit is actually kind of-

Oh.

“You know, I should get going,” Whiskey says, keeping his tone even – he’s already closing his books, reaching for his backpack. “Got some stuff to… Yeah.”

“Oh, sure.” Immediately, Miguel takes a step backwards. He’s almost frowning. “I guess I’ll see you in class?”

“Yeah.” Whiskey gets up, and forces himself to face Miguel one more time. “Sorry, it’s just, today’s kind of special. My girlfriend is turning twenty-one.”

“Oh. That’s nice.” Miguel is smiling, again. Although this time, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You two have a good one, then.”

“Yeah. I’ll see you.”

Whiskey turns around, and quickly walks away.

His girlfriend’s birthday is in two months.


	4. the frogs

Chowder loves his friends.

Not just a little bit, either. Oh, no. Chowder passionately, vigorously, absolutely relentlessly _ loves _ his friends.

He’s in the Haus kitchen, chilling at the table and mostly working on a problem set for his class on algorithms. Whiskey and Tango, who are seated across from him, are ignoring their homework in favor of bickering amiably about the correct combination of flavors and toppings for frozen yoghurt. Dex is peeling apples for a pie filling over at the kitchen counter, having already left the dough to rest in the refrigerator – he looks so relaxed, although maybe a little flustered, and Chowder knows  _ exactly  _ why Dex is struggling to keep that gentle smile off his face. Because finally there’s Nursey, who’s sitting right next to Chowder, and although he’s got several books open in front of him he’s not even pretending to be doing anything other than provide a constant commentary of every move Dex makes. It’s basically a glorious stream of flirty chirps, and Chowder is so,  _ so  _ here for it.

In fact, Chowder probably couldn’t hide his own ridiculous smile, even if he tried.

It’s difficult to believe, now, that there was a time when Chowder seriously questioned if Dex and Nursey could ever become friends.

Friends. Chowder grins even wider.

“... And this is when we get to the most exciting part of pie-filling-preparation, folks – the irresistibly alluring baker Dex is going to _ slice  _ the apples!” Man, Nursey’s  _ really  _ going for it, now. “All right, people, it’s happening, he’s got the knife, he’s going in and –  _ yes!  _ The first apple is sliced! An incredible achievement by the tremendously handsome baker Dex!”

Chowder snickers, and glances curiously towards Dex. It’s kind of impressive, honestly, how his expression is still somewhat composed, despite Nursey’s absolutely relentless ridiculousness. Still – the tips of Dex’s ears have turned quite distinctly pink, giving him away completely.

“Hey, Whisk,” Tango says from across the table. “Your phone’s been buzzing, like, a lot. Maybe you should get that?”

Somewhere in the periphery of his awareness, Chowder acknowledges that Whiskey takes one look at his phone before swiftly getting up, leaving the kitchen without a word. Meanwhile, at the forefront of his awareness, Chowder realizes that Dex’s movements have actually stilled, briefly.

“Nursey,” Dex says, his tone suspiciously even. “Would you, uh. Help me get something from the basement, real quick?”

Nursey’s out of his chair, like,  _ immediately,  _ and Dex takes him by the hand, and they both disappear from the kitchen faster than you can say  _ Dexy and Nursey, sitting in a tree. _

Ford strolls into the kitchen right afterwards, her eyebrows raised in some kind of confusion.

“Those d-men sure are in a hurry, these days.”

“Yeah,” Chowder says, snickering. “Wonder why, huh.”

Ford sits herself down in the chair Nursey just vacated, and turns towards Chowder. For some reason, her expression is sort of apprehensive.

“You okay, there?”

Chowder blinks.

“Shouldn’t I be?”

Ford smiles kindly.

“They’re your best friends, both of them. It’s alright if this takes a while to get used to. For all of you.”

“Oh,” Chowder exclaims. “You think that…. _ Oh.  _ But that’s, like, absolutely not the case. At all.”

“Really,” Ford says, a little curiously.

Chowder smiles.

“They are both my best friends,” he admits, his tone actually sort of quiet, for once. “And for so long, I was  _ so  _ afraid that they would never even, y’know, tolerate each other? So when they finally started to get along, and then more than get along, and now this… It’s just the best – no, it’s better than the best, it’s actually  _ perfect.  _ Because now I get to watch them both realize and appreciate all the things that make the other person ‘swawesome. Which, in itself, is  _ totally _ ‘swawesome.”

“Huh.” Ford looks both surprised, and a little relieved. “Well. Good, then.”

“They’ll always have my back,” Chowder adds, his tone completely certain. “We still do frog movie night, every week – just the three of us, like always. And this Friday, we’re all going to Jerry’s, and of course Cait is coming too – so that’s, like, actually a double date, now! I’m so super excited!”

Ford smiles.

“Sounds ‘swasome, Chow,” she says kindly. “I’m so happy you guys are all happy.”

Just then, Nursey and Dex re-enter the kitchen. They’re still holding hands, and unsurprisingly, it seems like they haven’t actually brought anything back up from the basement – Chowder quietly makes a mental note for future chirping. There’s further evidence, though: Dex’s hair looks decidedly tousled, and Nursey’s grin is a whole lot more smug than it was, before.

Chowder grins widely.

He really,  _ really _ loves his friends.

The only thing he loves more? Probably how much his friends absolutely  _ adore  _ each other.


	5. family

Whiskey takes the stairs two steps at a time.

His heart is racing as he turns the corner, immediately heading for his own room. He barely registers passing by a vaguely curious Hops as he practically runs the last few steps. As soon as he's made it inside, he closes the door firmly behind himself and then locks it.

Whiskey's pulse is frighteningly close to a level that's comparable to mid-game in the playoffs, when the call finally connects.

“... Connor?”

Whiskey tries to take a breath – not even a deep breath, for fucks sake, if he could just fucking breathe at _all-_

“Beth. Hey.”

For some reason, Bethany Whisk almost laughs.

“For someone who did _not_ just come out to our entire extended family, you sure sound like shit, Connor.”

Whiskey let’s himself sink down onto his bed, his head in his hands.

“What, uh. When’d you… How bad is it?”

The text hadn’t exactly clarified much. _just outed myself to my parents and yours, over sunday dinner. everything a lil yikes. thought u should know_

“Pretty bad.” Beth’s voice is strangely calm. “Although actually, not _quite_ the worst case scenario? But close, yeah. Real close.”

“Shit,” Whiskey mutters.

“Yeah. My dad’s gone off somewhere – he sort of just got up and left, pretty soon after I’d said it? So that’ll be lots of fun when he gets back. Mom’s a lot calmer, comparatively. Said she needs to think. Which I’ve classified as ambiguous, but not completely hopeless.”

“What about…” Whiskey begins, his tone hoarse, and then he doesn’t finish the sentence.

He can’t finish the sentence.

“Oh, your folks weren’t too bad.” Beth pauses for a moment, as if to think. “I got the feeling they weren’t really angry – it was more like pity, I guess? Which wasn’t super fun either, gotta admit that. Your mom said it’s so sad I’ll never have children, and so of course I had to deliver the news that many lesbian women have plenty of kids, and then she looked, like, super confused. I’m _so_ fucking relieved she stopped asking questions, after that.”

Whiskey gets up, only to sit back down again. He’s trembling all over. It’s almost like he can feel the way his whole world has just shifted, like there’s an actual, physical change between right now and five minutes ago.

"Are you… D'you need anything? What can I do?"

"Oh, Connor." Beth's tone is uncharacteristically soft. "You know, I pretty much knew I’d never have to worry about your reaction. Because actually, I have a feeling you get it – like, really get it. Don’t you?”

Whiskey freezes.

"Considering your hockey team," Beth continues, completely oblivious. "Your captain is the first out something, isn’t he? Which is so cool, by the way, even though I don’t give many fucks about hockey.”

It takes Whiskey a moment to find his voice again.

"First out NCAA men’s hockey captain,” he rattles off, and it’s lucky that’s something he could quote in his sleep, or he’d get the words all mixed up. “Yeah, uh. That was Bitty. He graduated this spring. But our captain this year – Dex – is actually dating his defence partner, so.”

"Defence what now?"

"Another player on our team."

“Wow,” Beth says, and there’s something not unlike wonder in her tone. “I guess it’s all true, those things they say about Samwell.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey returns unsteadily. “You have no idea, Beth.”

Beth is quiet for a moment.

“So I’m flying back tomorrow,” she says, and for some reason her voice sounds a little different from before – more determined. “You know, Samwell is less than a four hour drive from Columbia.”

“Is that so.”

“It is. We could, y’know. Hang out sometime? Anyway, you should meet Melanie.”

“... Oh,” Whiskey says, and it’s like he has to pause and process all over again. “Melanie. Huh.”

“You’ll like Mel,” Beth says eagerly. “And I could meet your team, maybe? That’d be fun.”

“That would be fun,” Whiskey says after a beat – it surprises him, that he actually, genuinely means it. He’s _missed_ Beth. “Yeah. We should do that.”

“See, this is why you’re my favourite cousin.” Beth sounds extremely pleased. “Josh and Amy haven’t even returned my texts, yet.”

“To be fair, they kind of always sucked.”

“You speak the truth, my friend. Nothing but the truth.”

“Seriously, though,” Whiskey says. “If you, like, need anything? Anything at all? Let me know. We’ll figure it out.”

“Thank you.” Beth’s tone is warm. “I think I’ll be fine. Like I said, I’m flying back tomorrow, and once I’m back at school there’s not much mom and dad can do, even if they try. I’m on a full scholarship, plus I’ve already got a paid internship lined up for next summer, so I’m basically financially independent at this point. And I’ve made some really amazing friends at Columbia. They’ll help me out.”

“They’ve got your back?”

“Definitely.”

“Okay. Good.”

“So,” Beth continues, her tone for some reason a bit sly. “Your mom told me you’re back together with that girl from Phoenix? That was right before I dropped the big lesbian bomb on everyone, so I didn’t get to ask her, like, anything.”

“... Yeah,” Whiskey confirms uneasily. “We got back together during spring break last semester, yeah.”

“That’s nice.”

“I guess.”

“You guess? Don’t you know?”

“I mean, I don’t see her a lot,” Whiskey tries.

Beth hums. “Long distance, huh. That’s tough.”

“No, that’s not…” Whiskey draws a shaky breath. It’s so much easier to lie to everyone else. “Beth. Can I tell you something?”

“You can tell me anything, C.”

“Right.” Whiskey tries to keep his voice steady. “Just, can you promise me to… To pretend like I didn’t actually tell you? To just never bring it up again. Ever.”

“I mean, sure.” Beth’s tone is kind, if a little surprised. “If that’s what you want, sure.”

Whiskey closes his eyes, and breathes in.

“I slept with a guy.”

For a moment, Beth is quiet.

“All right,” she says gently. “You know that’s not the end of the world, right?”

“No, I guess.” Whiskey’s voice is shaking. “I’m just… I don’t know.”

Beth hums. “You want to do it again?”

“We uh, we did.” Whiskey clears his throat. “A few times. Last semester.”

“Hold up,” Beth says, her tone startled. “You’ve _been_ sleeping with a guy? Frequently?”

“Not since last semester,” Whiskey reminds her quickly. “But, uh, yeah. For a while there it was every now and then.”

Beth is quiet for a moment.

“Is this the part where I smoothly change the subject and we never speak of this again? Because I’m, like, _dying_ to get all the details.”

Whiskey almost smiles.

Somehow, breathing feels a little easier than before.

“He’s on the lacrosse team,” he supplies, surprising himself.

“Athletic,” Beth concludes, her tone giddy. “Fit? Hot?”

“Really fit,” Whiskey admits. “And like, tall?”

“Fucking get it, Connor!” Beth laughs. “But you’re not seeing each other, anymore?”

“I’m back together with my girlfriend,” Whiskey reminds her tersely. “And me and that guy weren’t ever officially anything.”

“Right,” Beth agrees easily. “Still. Glad to hear you’re getting the full Samwell experience.”

“You could say that.” Whiskey sighs. “I just. I’m not sure… I don’t think I can ever do what you just did.”

“Okay,” Beth says gently. “Do you have to, though?”

“I mean, eventually,” Whiskey tells her uneasily. “Right? People come out, eventually.”

“Not everyone does. Some people don’t.”

Whiskey blinks.

“There’s really a lot more to being gay than coming out,” Beth continues. “I would know.”

“I’m not gay,” Whiskey says reflexively – and really, he isn’t. Not strictly.

“No labels, then? Cool, cool." There's warmth in Beth's voice as she continues. "You'll figure all of this out, Connor. I'm sure you will."

"You're not the first person to tell me that."

"Let's hope I won't be the last," Beth says brightly. "So. How many people know?"

"Noone," Whiskey says quickly – too quickly. "Well, you know now. Bitty found out accidentally, and I almost told Dex. Plus I guess that guy I was with has a hunch."

"Right," Beth says, and there's no judgement in her tone. "So when we come to see you, this conversation never happened. Obviously, I'm not telling Melanie."

"Yeah," Whiskey agrees. "Thank you. Thank you so much, Beth."

"No problem. And on that happy subject, when’s a good weekend for me and Mel to drive up for some Samwell shenanigans?”

“I can send you our game schedule," Whiskey suggests.

“Connor, you know I love you, but please tell me you don’t expect me to sit through an entire game of _sports.”_

“I mostly meant so you’ll know when we have away games,” Whiskey says, and to his own surprise he’s grinning slightly. “You know, so that I’m not in fucking New Jersey when you show up here.”

“Okay, fair point.” Beth pauses. “By the way. Are you any good?”

“What, at hockey?”

“No, at table tennis.” The eye-roll is near audible.

“I am,” Whiskey says. “Good, I mean. I’m the top scorer on our team.”

“Well, that’s only good if the team is.”

“You know, maybe you guys should actually drive up for a game weekend,” Whiskey tells her. “It’s really not a complete Samwell experience without a proper post-game kegster.”

“A what now?”

“A _party,_ Beth. A huge party. At the hockey frat.”

“See, now you’re talking,” Beth says excitedly. “Hey. Mind if I bring some friends?”


	6. legends

Ford makes one more note on her clipboard, before setting it down beside her on the bench.

She doesn’t always watch practice. To be fair, she kind of doesn’t  _ need  _ to watch practice – technically speaking, that is. It’s kind of ironic, almost, what with her long (and, quite frankly, constantly expanding) list of duties as manager of the Samwell Men’s Hockey team, that none of her work actually has much to do with the hockey part of the equation. Instead, it’s all about the everything else – booking travel for away games, writing and mailing out the biweekly newsletter, coordinating team breakfast as well as other morale-boosting social endeavors and making sure the Scones don’t  _ actually  _ catfish the entire lax frat in a misguided attempt to impress a certain group of Samwell alumni. That sort of thing.

It’s been a little while, since she last found herself seated on the bench when it wasn’t a game night. Or at least, it seems like it’s been a while. Because really, this can’t be the same team Ford watched less than two weeks ago.

Clearly, she’s missed out on some major developments.

Dex has called everyone together, and is going over a new play they’re about to try. He’s patient and very clear – succinct, Ford decides, after a moment’s consideration – and the smooth way he invites Chowder and Hops into the conversation, encouraging them to be vocal and precise about what they’ll need to get the timing right, is actually kind of cool. It’s not  _ quite  _ the route Bitty would have taken – his method involved a lot more determined enthusiasm, which Ford always loved – and it’s also distinctly different from the more humorous style Ford recalls from her brief observations of Random and Holster in action. In any case, it seems like Dex has really settled into a rhythm that works for him, works for  _ this  _ team.

Ford smiles.

Then she shifts her focus.

Across the ice, one of the Scones – Pippin, or Pips, the jury’s still out on that one – has sort of drifted away from the others a little. Ford frowns. She did see Pips fumbling the puck a few times during that last drill, but it’s unclear if anyone else even noticed. Still, there’s something about Pippin’s unusually closed off expression that doesn’t feel quite right. Out of all the Scones, Pippin’s always proven the most enthusiastic, the first to engage.

Ford gets to her feet – maybe, she can alert someone on the ice, just to make sure-

Except, it turns out, she doesn’t have to.

Whiskey has quietly made his way over to Pips. There’s a quick exchange of words – something Whiskey says makes Pips smile a little – and then they’re both gliding over to the others just in time for when Dex wraps up his talk.

Slowly, Ford sits back down again.

She finds herself watching Whiskey closely, for a while. He’s got a serious expression that always emerges whenever he’s anywhere near the ice, but there’s something about it that’s a little different from before. Ford isn’t entirely sure of how to describe it. Whiskey looks a little calmer, perhaps? Or maybe less anxious?

“Yeah. I know.”

Ford looks up. She’s been so preoccupied watching Whiskey, she didn’t even notice Tango making his way over.

“He’s doing well, isn’t he?” Ford says, getting up to hand Tango his water bottle.

“For sure.” Tango looks across the ice towards Whiskey, who’s listening intently to something Chowder is saying. “I’ve gotta say, when Dex gave Whiskey the A, I was kind of surprised. But he’s really been stepping it up.”

“Doesn’t Whisk seem a bit different this year, in general?”

Tango pauses.

It’s something Ford has been thinking about a lot. They’ve been really close for a while now, the three of them – _ legends only,  _ as their private group chat humbly proclaims. Except this year, Ford doesn’t quite recognize Whiskey. He’s a little livelier, sometimes, and his smiles are definitely less brief. It makes Ford wonder if they should all have realized, during last year, that maybe something wasn’t quite right.

“Do you think he talks more?” Tango asks, and Ford has to bite down her smile – leave it to Tango to answer a question with a question. “And laughs more?”

“Yeah,” Ford says eagerly. “All of that, yeah. And like, he’s got some friends coming to our next game, and he wants us to  _ meet  _ them? Whiskey has never introduced anyone to the team. Literally never.”

“A cousin, is what he said,” Tango supplies, shaking his head a little. “Yeah. Wild.”

“I mean, it’ll be fun,” Ford amends. “I just don’t know what to make of it.”

Tango glances over towards Whiskey again.

Then he shrugs.

“I’m sure he’ll talk to us, eventually.”

“You think there’s something to talk about?”

“If there is, he’ll talk to us when he’s ready,” Tango repeats. He sounds completely confident. “Legends only, right?”

Ford smiles a little.

“Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

Tango grins. Then he sets down his water bottle, and skates back across the ice.

Ford sits down.

Her eyes don’t leave Whiskey until he skates off the ice.


	7. single

They win.

Whiskey’s whole body is still buzzing with adrenaline as they pile into the locker room at full volume. There’s lots of shouting and laughing, and even a few atrocious attempts at actual singing. Whiskey can’t seem to stop grinning as he joins the others in calling for Dex to make his speech, as he fistbumps Pips and Louis and Joyo, as Tango sweeps him and Ford up in a belated, private, three-person celly.

It’s only when Hops suddenly calls out to Whiskey from all the way across the room, that Whiskey abruptly stops smiling.

“Yo, Whisk! That girl who kept waving at you – cute brunette, right behind the glass – that’s your girlfriend, isn’t it?”

Whiskey takes a moment to make sure he’s got his expression under complete control, before he turns around.

He’s been meaning to mention it to the whole team, as opposed to just Tango and Ford. Now’s as good a time as any.

“That’s my cousin, Beth, she’s here with some friends,” he corrects, keeping his tone light. “Actually, my girlfriend and I broke up.”

It’s really something, the way the whole room kind of just… Quiets. Samwell Men’s Hockey doesn’t  _ do  _ quiet.

Hops, to his credit, looks sufficiently apologetic.

“Shit, man – I didn’t know.”

“You’re fine,” Whiskey says quickly. “It’s all good. You couldn’t know.”

“That girl you dated lives in Phoenix, right?” Louis chimes in smoothly. “Must’ve been tough, being so far away from her. That’d make any relationship difficult.”

It’s a decent assumption, and one Whiskey certainly wouldn’t mind if they all made.

“Yeah, well,” he says vaguely. “We weren’t together for very long, so.”

There. Now they all know, and Whiskey has at least  _ tried  _ to downplay the whole fucking thing. Hopefully, they’ll all instantly forget about the fact that Whiskey ever dated anybody. Because it’s not like Whiskey wants to talk about it. Or rather, there’s actually nothing to talk about. They were together, and now they’re not – end of story.

It’ll all be easier, this way.

Suddenly, blissfully, there’s a familiar voice over by the door.

“C! My man!”

Whiskey can’t help his wide grin as he turns around, and it’s a good thing he’s expecting the literal tacke of a hug Beth gives him. It’s only his years of experience of Beth-related shenanigans that keeps him from losing his balance.

“You did  _ so  _ good!” Beth hollers, her arms still clinging around his neck. “I don’t get, like, half of everything that went down out there, but I’m pretty sure you scored an actual goal? Probably several?”

“Two,” Whiskey informs Beth as he carefully puts her down. “Yeah. Pretty good game, tonight.”

“I’m so super proud of you!” Beth continues giddily, before quickly glancing behind her where three somewhat bemused individuals are hovering expectantly. “Oh, right – come on, everybody, say hi. This is Mel.”

“Hi, Mel,” Whiskey parrots dutifully. Melanie’s got long, dark hair and a kind smile, and Whiskey immediately appreciates the steady way she meets his eyes. “I’ve been hearing a lot about you, lately.”

“I could say the same about you,” Mel replies, her tone pleasant. “Thanks so much for having us.”

“No problem.”

The other two introduce themselves as Leonard and Jeremy – Whiskey vaguely recalls Beth mentioning they all met through the GS Alliance at Columbia. He also belatedly realizes that the boys are holding hands.

Clearly, they’ll all fit right in.

“You should meet Tango,” Whiskey tells them, looking around the room. “And Ford, hey! Get over here a sec!”

“Tango,” Jeremy repeats, exchanging a confused look with Leonard.

“We all have normal names, we just don’t… Guys, this is my cousin Beth and her minions. Be nice.”

“The famous Beth!” Ford exclaims, her smile effortlessly charming. “Hi. Welcome! Tonight’s gonna be a lot of fun.”

“I’m gonna get you guys some premium tub juice, later,” Tango fills in, grinning widely. “D’you guys have tub juice at Columbia? It’s, like, the ‘swasomest thing. You’ll love it.”

Jeremy and Leonard exchange another bewildered glance. Whiskey, meanwhile, finds that his own smile has softened.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise, maybe, that he kind of really likes his friends. A lot.

As they all walk back to the Haus, the conversation flowing with surprising ease in their newly extended circle of friends, Whiskey pulls Beth aside for a moment.

“I told the team, earlier,” he says quietly. “About the breakup.”

Beth slows down, letting the others get a bit ahead.

“And?”

“It went fine.” Whiskey shrugs. “I’m mostly relieved they all know, now.”

“That’s good, I guess.” Beth looks a bit thoughtful. “Are you okay, though?”

Whiskey attempts another casual shrug.

“I mean, you never really mentioned what happened,” Beth continues carefully. “Of course, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s whatever.”

Whiskey is so grateful that she’s giving him an out.

“It’s not a big deal.” And really, it’s not. “I just thought this would be better.”

“This, as in…?”

“Me working through all my shit on my own.”

It’s pretty vague, but still more than Whiskey actually intended to share. Although, that’s okay. Because this is Beth he’s talking to.

And Beth already knows.

"All right," Beth says gently. "So, you’re not quite single and ready to mingle, but maybe single and ready to party with your weird but charmingly enthusiastic hockey pals, and your most awesome cousin?"

Somehow, that's enough to make Whiskey smile again.

"You know, I'm gonna tell them you called them that.”

“Oh, whatever.” Beth rolls her eyes, her smile widening. “Anyway. I’m excited to see if this sports tribe of yours has got any moves? ‘Cause me and my crew came prepared.”

Whiskey grins.

“Come on. Let’s catch up with my people, and maybe you’ll find out.”


	8. morning

Whiskey rolls out of bed, his mind still foggy.

He gingerly steps around the mattress on the floor, where Beth and Melanie are still fast asleep, and manages to close the door behind him with minimum sound. Across the hallway, the door to Chowder’s room is ajar, and Whiskey can hear two people snoring in there. It’s no surprise, really – Leo and Jeremy were still dominating the Haus dance floor when Whiskey finally stumbled up the stairs last night. Or, more accurately, this morning – Whiskey  _ thinks  _ it might’ve been around half past three, but he’s not entirely sure. In any case, those two could probably sleep for a week.

A kegster is always a kegster, but last night? Last night was a  _ kegster. _

Whiskey will have to remember to get Chowder something as thanks for letting Beth’s friends crash in his room. Then again, Whiskey thinks with a grin, it probably wasn’t a huge inconvenience for Chowder to stay over at Cait’s.

Whiskey sleepily pads his way into the Haus kitchen, only to be met with… Nothing. A resounding abundance of nothing.

There’s nobody in the kitchen.

Whiskey blinks.

Dex did say he had a thing this Sunday – something about a mandatory captain’s meeting at too fucking early o’clock. Obviously, he’d have left for that already, or he’d be running late. Meaning, Dex isn’t at the Haus. Dex won’t be making post-kegster breakfast.

Oh.

The kitchen is something of a mess – although, to be fair, it could’ve been a lot worse. There’s an open garbage bag hanging from one of the chairs, evidence that someone’s already cleared out a whole lot of paper cups – Dex, Whiskey suspects, since no one else seems to be awake yet. The kitchen counter is still covered in a myriad of half-empty bottles and cans, but the sink looks recently rinsed and someone’s clearly swept the worst remnants of the kegster off the floor.

Still. There’s no way they can have post-keg breakfast with the kitchen looking like this.

Without even really thinking about it, Whiskey rolls up his sleeves and gets to work.

Fifteen minutes later, when Tango wanders into the kitchen, Whiskey has actually dealt with the worst of it. There’s three filled garbage bags out in the hallway, the kitchen counter is wiped clean and he’s opened the windows to let in some fresh air.

“Hey,” Tango mutters, his voice somewhat hoarse from last night’s escapades, and Whiskey can hear the question in his voice before he asks. “S’Dex?”

“That captain thing.”

“Huh.”

Tango surveys the clean but decidedly breakfast-less kitchen for a moment.

Then he shrugs.

“Scrambled eggs?” he offers. “Probably the best I can do.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey affirms, after a beat. “That’d be great, T.”

Tango’s already opening the refrigerator, pulling out several cartons of eggs while stifling a yawn.

For a moment, Whiskey simply watches Tango. He’s not quite sure what to do with his hands. Or with himself at all, really.

Somewhat hesitantly, Whiskey makes his way over to the shelf by the microwave. It’s where Dex keeps the spiral notebook with the plain, grey front, the one that’s scribbled full of all the recipes Dex uses for baking and cooking. It’s no coincidence that Whiskey’s never gone anywhere near that thing – whenever anyone is using the Haus kitchen for more than making a sandwich, Whiskey tends to feel more comfortable anywhere else.

Which is why Whiskey can’t keep himself from glancing furtively in Tango’s direction, as he slowly reaches for Dex’s notebook.

Tango meets his eyes briefly. Then he yawns again, and keeps stirring his bowl of eggs.

Whiskey still hesitates, before carefully opening the notebook.

He skims through the first few pages, quickly flipping past them. It’s pie, plus  _ more  _ pie, and Whiskey immediately recognizes Bitty’s neat penmanship. Which is just, no. Anything Whiskey can throw together wouldn’t even begin to compare.

The next section is a little more promising – there’s a couple of pancake variations that don’t seem too tricky, except Whiskey’s pretty certain they don’t have an abundance of milk at the moment, and there’s a basic omelet that might’ve worked if Tango wasn’t using up all the eggs.

The next page makes Whiskey pause.

Scones.

That’s funny.

And not too complicated, Whiskey realizes, as he reads through the remarkably brief instructions.  _ Measure, mix, bake.  _ Right.

He holds the notebook up for Tango to evaluate.

“Think I’ll fuck it up?”

Tango takes a moment to skim the page. Then he shrugs.

“Better than nothing, yeah?”

Whiskey nods in agreement. Then he gets to work.

A while later, Ford enters the kitchen. She’s got her sunglasses on and is clutching an Annie’s takeaway cup, no doubt a double espresso. As soon as she looks up, she stops dead in her tracks.

There’s a  _ ton  _ of scrambled eggs, all piled up in the biggest bowl Tango could find, as well as a huge pile of slightly dry vanilla scones. Whiskey’s dug through the refrigerator and found several jars of lemon curd and blueberry jam to go with the scones, and Tango’s made a whole pot of coffee. There’s orange juice, too, and some milk for the coffee, and Whiskey’s just put on some tea in case anyone prefers that.

It’s breakfast.

“What the hell,” Ford mutters, pushing her sunglasses into her hair. She snatches up a scone and nibbles on it experimentally. “Huh. Neat.”

“I made the eggs!” Tango proclaims, not without pride. “But Whiskey’s really behind most of this. He was already going at it by the time I showed up.”

“That’s a significant exaggeration,” Whiskey cuts in, because really, it’s not even true. “I just. I wanted…”

He trails off. He’s not sure what he wanted.

Thankfully, half the hockey team chooses that moment to descend.

“Food! All right!”

“Please tell me there’s coffee,  _ please.” _

“Yo, Whiskey, you made those? ‘Swasome.”

Whiskey finds himself taking a step back, just watching. He wasn’t expecting to feel this way. Although actually, Whiskey’s not even sure if he knows how to label what he’s feeling, exactly, as he watches everyone dig into something he tried his best to make for them.

Suddenly, Dex appears in the doorway. Whiskey feels his mouth drying up as Dex surveys the room with furrowed brows, before Dex’s eyes land on the still open spiral notebook on the counter. Right next to Whiskey.

Dex meets his eyes.

“You made this?”

“Tango cooked the eggs.” Whiskey’s got a feeling that’s a phrase he’ll be repeating. “It was, uh. Yeah.”

Dex nods, slowly, taking it all in.

Then he grins.

“‘Swasome. Next time, you guys have to give me a hand with post-keg breakfast, captain’s orders. We can always use a few more scones in the world.”

“Now that’s a fact!” Pippin hollers – immediately, Joyo and Jader cheer. “Samwell class of 2021, make some noise!”

“Yo,” Nursey grumbles. “The kegster was last night. Chill, Scones.”

“Woah.”

Beth and Melanie have just entered the kitchen, hand in hand. Mel’s rubbing sleep out of her eyes. Beth is blinking a lot as she takes everything in.

“This is a frat house,” she states, addressing no one in particular. “And yet…”

“Ah, but you see, post-keg breakfast is an important SMH tradition,” Tango informs her brightly. “Go ahead, grab a scone. No – not Pippin. One of these.”

“Huh.” Beth slides into the chair next to Tango as she bites into a vanilla scone. “Oh. Nice.”

“Whiskey made them. I made the eggs!”

Beth looks up abruptly, meeting Whiskey’s eyes. Whiskey still doesn’t have the right words for any of this. He shrugs, instead.

Beth’s smile is warm.

“Get over here, C – come on, grab a chair. I wanna have breakfast with my favorite cousin before we’ve got to head back to Columbia.”

That sets Whiskey into motion. He finds himself a chair and squeezes it in between Beth and Ford, before carefully taking a scone from the now half-empty plate. Tango pours him a cup of coffee, and Mel passes him the jam.

Whiskey tentatively bites into his vanilla scone with blueberry jam.

It's actually pretty good.


	9. eventually

Nursey stops, abruptly.

Dex frowns.

They’ve left campus in order to shop for new running shoes, and have made a spontaneous detour to a nearby thrift store Nursey wanted to check out. Which is a bit funny, in hindsight, since Nursey’s wandered around the whole place without really looking at anything, while Dex has picked up a few mismatched mugs that'll make a nice addition to the Haus collection as well as more than a few tiny flower pots that look absolutely perfect for succulents. Now, though, it seems like something has finally caught Nursey’s attention.

Dex peers around his boyfriend, trying to figure out what in the world it is that’s made Nursey’s expression turn so suddenly wistful.

It’s a table.

A large, rectangular wooden table made out of what must be black walnut. The legs are made of high gauge steel, giving the whole piece a very sleek, trendy feel. It’s the kind of table you’d find in a rustic-looking cabin on the edge of some tourist-packed national park, or in an entirely too large and exhaustingly modern kitchen where some poor interior designer has made a desperate attempt to bring out a slightly more homey vibe.

Dex purses his lips.

Black walnut. Really? When there’s perfectly nice, durable, affordable red oak in the world? And if you’re dead set on wasting all your cash on the most ridiculous type of wood you could find, why the fuck wouldn’t you even bother to sand off the edges properly?

“Yeah,” Nursey says, a little hurriedly. “I know. It’s stupid.”

Dex tears his eyes away from the table to look at Nursey.

“It’s expensive,” Nursey elaborates, even as he lets his fingertips glide lightly across the surface of the table, his smile soft. “And it’s not like I need a fucking table. I’m just… Yeah. No.”

Dex looks back towards the table, considering it once more. It’s still fucking ridiculous, obviously. Nothing could change that fact.

But for some reason, Nursey really likes it.

“D’you think it’s made of maple?” Dex asks, keeping his tone mildly curious – hopefully, Nursey doesn't realize the fact that Dex already knows it's not.

“Dunno.” Nursey shrugs. “Wooden stuff just looks so nice. And it feels so good to touch and seems, like, really sturdy? I like that."

Dex quietly catalogues each clue – evidently, the exact type of wood isn't the key, here. “Wouldn’t really suit the Haus kitchen, though.”

“I don’t want it for the  _ Haus.” _

Huh.

“I know, I know. It’s fucking stupid.” Nursey quickly takes his hand off the table, as though he’s been burned. "It'll be literal years before I might even dream of having that kind of space – it sure as hell won't happen in grad school, and if I actually get into a fucking PhD program it'll be even longer. Maybe when I'm, like, forty."

"Right," Dex says, his thoughts jumbling together as he tries to process what Nursey is actually saying. "Space for… A table?"

"Space for a family."

Dex's mind screeches to a halt.

Nursey looks at him, abruptly.

"And, like, lots of friends," he adds, a little too quickly. "Can't imagine a future where a hoard of hockey bros don't show up on the regular."

It's such an easy out, only Dex isn't sure if it's for his or Nursey's benefit.

Dex let's himself take a deep breath, before he looks back at the table.

"It's a good size," he offers, because that much is actually true. "And the idea of… Of hardwood? I like that."

He really does. So long as it's not black fucking walnut.

"Yeah?" Nursey returns, his voice a little unsteady.

"Sure." Dex meets Nursey's eyes directly. "I really wouldn't mind something similar. Eventually, I mean."

Nursey nods slowly. Then he smiles, just a little bit.

"Okay. Cool."

They both look at the table for a moment longer. Nursey is clearly trying to appear chill, except he's totally got that wistful look from before in his eyes and it's kind of the very definition of unchill. Dex, meanwhile, has narrowed his eyes in concentration as he desperately tries to commit every single detail of the table to memory.

He has to, if he's going to get this right.

That same evening, Dex sends a cryptic text to Ford, asking if she knows anyone with access to the wood workshop the theatre club uses.

Turns out, Ford's still got a key.


	10. unicorn

It could’ve been worse, Whiskey decides, as he finds himself trudging his way across the unsurprisingly crowded campus with Ford and Tango, on a mission to get to the murder Stop-n-Shop before the disposable cups are completely sold out. Really, it could’ve been  _ so  _ much worse.

They’ve already passed by more than three sets of Powerpuff girls, and Whiskey is pretty sure he could look in any direction and immediately spot at least one Alexander Hamilton. At  _ least  _ one. Among all the outrageously flashy costumes around them, the three of them actually look a little bit low-key despite their carefully coordinated ridiculousness. Which honestly suits Whiskey just fine. And thankfully, it doesn’t seem to bother Ford and Tango at all – the two of them look kind of absurdly excited in their matching black cloaks and house scarves.

It’s actually pretty endearing.

“We’ve gotta get a group picture, later,” Whiskey says, surprising himself.

Ford turns towards him, beaming.

“I know, right? I’m so glad I finished knitting in time!”

“Totally,” Tango agrees enthusiastically. “Hey, do you really think the theatre club will  _ really  _ need these cloaks back? ‘Cause I could get used to this.”

“So sorry, Weasley, but Chanelle will murder me if I don’t have them back by Monday.”

“Chanelle, huh? D’you think she’s the culprit behind the ol’ Stop-n-Shop murder?”

“I mean, if someone ever spoke to her before her second cup of coffee in the morning? Probably.”

After zig-zagging between two separate teams of superheroes trying to herd one another in place for a picture, they finally get to Stop-n-Shop. At once, Ford’s expression turns serious.

“Okay. Ready?”

“When you are,” Tango says gravely. “Let’s just hope at least one of us makes it back out alive.”

They get into formation, and slowly elbow their way inside the shop.

It’s packed,  _ literally  _ packed. Whiskey carefully steps between Tinker Bell and Gandalf as he heads towards the back of the shop, just as planned. A look over his shoulder tells him Tango’s already made his way over to the registers and is trying to figure out where the line ends, so he can get in it and hold a spot for them. He can’t even see Ford anymore, but he’s sure she’s doing everything she can to get over to the section for kitchen essentials, where it’s most likely they’ll actually find what they’re looking for.

Whiskey turns around again, and resolutely keeps making his way towards the back. There’s a shelf around there that has office supplies, and a selection of scented candles, and sometimes seasonal wrapping paper. There’s a  _ slight _ chance there’ll be some kind of cups or mugs around there, too. Obviously, they’ve got to exhaust every option.

It’s for the good of the Halloween kegster.

Unfortunately, the store is no less crowded near the back. Whiskey has just carefully avoided colliding with a pair of Power Rangers when he finds himself walking right into a guy in a unicorn onesie, instead.

“Shit – sorry, I’m so sorry.” Whiskey steps backwards, only there’s a shelf behind him, so it doesn’t really help very much. “Didn’t see you there, I was-”

The guy looks up. Whiskey falls silent.

It’s Miguel.

Intro to statistics, Wednesdays and Fridays.

“Oh,” Whiskey says awkwardly, only to immediately realize that doesn’t even make sense. “I mean, hi.”

Miguel looks at him a little unsurely.

And honestly? That’s fair.

Whiskey hasn’t talked to Miguel since their brief encounter at Founders. In fact, it might be the case that Whiskey has made it his business  _ not  _ to talk to Miguel, quite on purpose. Which shouldn’t be such a big deal, considering that the two of them weren’t even friends before Whiskey decided that wasn’t on the table, anymore.

The unfortunate thing is, Whiskey is pretty sure that Miguel has noticed. At any rate, there’s definitely been a couple of times when Whiskey has caught Miguel glancing his way during class.

Or maybe, Whiskey belatedly realizes, it might actually have been himself who's been caught watching Miguel.

Right now, though, Miguel is sort of looking anywhere but at Whiskey. He’s got his attention focused on the almost thinning crowd to their left, looking very much like he’s planning on making his escape as soon as an opportunity arises. Which should be a good thing. It should be one hundred percent exactly what Whiskey wants.

It’s not what Whiskey wants.

For a moment, Whiskey allows himself to look at Miguel. Just look at him. It’s difficult – Whiskey has to fight the prickling urge to glance around them, to make sure that no one is watching, that no one will look over and see what’s happening and just _ know.  _ Except, Whiskey suddenly realizes, that’s actually pretty fucking unlikely. Right next to them, one Princess Peach and three ninjas are having an increasingly heated debate on who’s chosen the superior party snack, and over in the next aisle a whole gang of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are halfway through a spontaneous rendition of the show’s theme song in several different keys.

Who the fuck is gonna care about a wizard and a unicorn over in a corner, just talking?

Maybe, Whiskey could actually let himself have this. Just this. One conversation with a really cute boy, in public, on purpose. Maybe it wouldn’t actually be the end of the world.

Whiskey nervously adjusts his glassless glasses.

“How, uh. How’ve you been?”

Miguel’s eyes snap back towards him.

“Excuse me?”

“How have you been?” Whiskey repeats, enunciating carefully. “How’s statistics going?”

Miguel shrugs, his expression guarded.

“Okay, I guess.”

“It’s kind of growing on me,” Whiskey offers – he can do this, he can carry a normal fucking conversation. “Or maybe I’m just relieved that I actually passed the midterm.”

That makes Miguel frown.

“There’s no way you just passed,” he disagrees, before pausing briefly. “I mean. You don’t seem like you’ve got no clue about all those things, in class.”

“Appearances can be pretty deceiving,” Whiskey returns, and it’s honestly ridiculous, the way Miguel’s hesitant smile makes Whiskey’s heart flutter. Fucking ridiculous.

“That’s true,” Miguel replies, his eyes flickering down to Whiskey’s scarf for a moment. “Because you definitely can't be a Gryffindor.”

“No, God no – this is just a costume.” Whiskey dares a slight smile of his own. “I go to Beauxbatons, actually."

That makes Miguel laugh a little. Whiskey’s heart soars.

"You speak French, then?" Miguel throws at him, his tone a little playful – or maybe actually flirty? How is one supposed to tell the difference?

"Uh... Non?"

"If you say so," Miguel says loftily. "Estoy seguro de que hablas otros idiomas."

"... That's Spanish, right?"

Miguel grins.

"Ten points to Slytherin," he declares, his expression giddy in a way that unfortunately doesn't make him any less cute, at all. “I really like your glasses, by the way.”

“The glasses are my one contribution to this costume,” Whiskey hurriedly admits. “My friends put together literally everything else.”

“The glasses are a nice touch, though,” Miguel says kindly. “They actually suit you pretty well.”

“... Uh. Thanks.” Whiskey has no idea of what he’s supposed to say to that – something about Miguel’s costume, probably? “You, um. You make a really nice unicorn.”

Fuck. He must try to think before he speaks, from now on.

Thankfully, it seems like Whiskey’s limitless awkwardness doesn’t make Miguel think Whiskey is completely out of his mind. Instead, Whiskey watches in a state of fear infused with delight as Miguel ducks his head for a moment, smiling.

Fucking  _ fuck. _

“Hey,” Miguel says, looking up to meet Whiskey’s eyes again – compared to before, he sounds oddly determined. “We should meet up sometime. You could definitely give me some pointers for statistics, and we could also, y’know. Just hang out? Maybe?"

… Whiskey was  _ not _ expecting that.

Evidently, his surprise is showing on his face, because Miguel immediately backpedals.

“I mean, only if you have time – I guess the hockey season’s in full swing, right about now? Must be tough.”

Whiskey takes a deep breath, and allows himself to glance around the two of them, just once. The crowd’s finally thinned out a little bit – for the first time since they left the Haus, there’s not a single Alexander Hamilton in sight. Still, even without the presence of shouting Princess Peaches and musically inclined Ninja Turtles, there’s actually nobody watching them. Nobody seems even a little bit curious about what’s happening over in their little corner.

No one will know. No one will even  _ care. _

Whiskey bravely turns back towards Miguel.

“Sure.”

It’s Miguel’s turn to look surprised, now.

“Really?”

“Sure,” Whiskey repeats. “D’you wanna-”

“Hey, Whiskey! Let’s get moving!”

Whiskey curses inwardly as he turns around – Tango and Ford are gesturing towards him enthusiastically from across the shop, both carrying several bags full of disposable cups.

At least the kegster is saved.

“I’ve gotta go,” Whiskey says, quickly turning back towards Miguel. “You should have my number.”

Miguel is staring at him.

_ “Whiskey?” _

Oh. Right.

“My last name’s Whisk,” Whiskey points out, feeling more self-conscious than ever. “Do you have a pen?”

“No, but here.” Miguel presses his phone into Whiskey’s hands, the screen showing a new contact with empty fields. The brief brush of their fingers is nothing short of exhilarating. “So, do you actually like to drink whiskey?”

“Not particularly.” Whiskey quickly types in his number. Obviously, he saves himself as  _ Whiskey  _ – nothing else for it, at this point. “There. All done.”

“Great.” Miguel smiles briefly towards his phone, before looking back at Whiskey again. “I’ll see you, then?”

“Of course,” Whiskey promises, and finds that he wants to linger. “Bye. I’ll see you, too.”

“Yo, Potter! The Hogwarts Express ain't gonna wait!"

Whiskey grimaces. Then he gives Miguel an awkward wave, and leaves.

“We got the very last of the plastic cups, but it should be enough,” Ford tells Whiskey cheerfully as she shoves two bags into his hands. “Let’s go. Who was that, anyway?”

“A guy from my statistics class. We’re gonna study together.”

Tango tsks.

“Thinking about studying on a day like this? It’s Halloween, my darlings – anything and everything can happen, so let your spirits fly!"

Whiskey allows himself a slight grin.

"Yeah. You might actually be onto something, T."

Ford gives him a somewhat curious look.

Whiskey carefully avoids meeting her eyes.


	11. something

Whiskey had been the one to suggest meeting at Founders.

The library is one of the few places on campus where it’s not-so-likely that he’ll run into anyone from the team. Unfortunately, it’s not  _ completely  _ guaranteed – it does happen, on occasion, that one of his teammates find it within themselves to actually hit the books – but it’s definitely Whiskey’s best bet when he wants some form of privacy at Samwell. Annie’s would’ve been much cozier, of course, if it hadn’t been for the fact that Whiskey would’ve run into at least six hockey players in the first half hour. Which is  _ not  _ happening, thank you very much. Whiskey is determined to avoid that onslaught of prying questions for as long as he possibly can.

Thankfully, Miguel had no objections to Founders.

And so, here they are. At Founders. Studying – really, just studying. Their statistics textbooks lie open on the table and everything. That’s right, nothing to see here, just two classmates being perfectly cordial classmates. It’s whatever, really. It’s almost nothing.

Except maybe, Whiskey thinks, daring yet another glance in Miguel’s direction and feeling his heartbeat quicken as he finds those brown eyes steadily meeting his own, it might actually be a little bit more than nothing.

Maybe, it could be something.

Miguel holds his Whiskey’s gaze for a moment, his expression unreadable.

Then he pushes his textbook aside.

“I wish I could just cram for the final, pass and then be done,” he complains, his tone a little wistful. “Like, I wish I didn’t actually need to know this stuff.”

“You do?” Whiskey asks curiously.

Miguel grimaces.

“I want to have a career in marine research. My academic advisor says I should try to include at least twenty credits of statistics and applied mathematics in my degree.”

“Oh,” Whiskey says, surprised. Although maybe, he doesn’t have a reason to be. “Your major is… Biology something, right?”

That makes Miguel smile.

“Marine biology,” he confirms. “Yeah.”

“Water polo, and marine biology,” Whiskey says, feeling like he’s starting to connect the dots. “Wait, let me guess. Scuba diving?”

Miguel grins, perhaps a little self-consciously.

“Bingo.”

“That’s really cool,” Whiskey tells him, because honestly, it is. “Do you, like. Go diving with dolphins and sharks?”

“No, goodness no!” Miguel laughs. “Try sea cows. And sometimes octopuses.”

“... Wait, really? I was kidding.”

“Sea cows are actually  _ so cool,” _ Miguel says, sitting up a little straighter. There’s a glow in his eyes that definitely wasn’t there before _. “ _ I’ve mostly seen the antillean manatees, since there are a lot of those in Belize where my grandparents live. It was after my first time diving there that I knew I just had to do it again, and again and  _ again, _ preferably. So I’m hoping that a degree in marine biology will make it possible for me to become a marine researcher, working in the field.”

“Huh,” Whiskey manages in return. There’s something about Miguel’s animated expression that’s making it unusually difficult to string sentences together. “Are there, uh. Are there many career opportunities for field marine biologists?”

Miguel’s smile falters a bit.

“I mean, I know it’s something of a long shot,” he admits, his tone a little quieter. “It’s definitely going to be very competitive. But I still want to try and get there, if i can.”

“No, I mean – of course you should,” Whiskey says hurriedly. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Miguel is still frowning slightly.

Whiskey takes a moment to try and find the right words. He thinks about long shots, about hundreds of prospects competing against each other in a draft, about elusive seven-figure-contracts and his actual chances of landing one. Statistically? Probably not that great.

“It’s better to try than to live with regret,” Whiskey finally settles on, and fucking  _ fuck, _ that sounded a whole lot better in his head. “I mean. Isn’t it?”

Miguel raises both eyebrows. He looks decidedly unimpressed.

Whiskey sighs.

“I want to play in the NHL,” he offers, somewhat desperately.

That makes Miguel’s eyes widen.

“You want to do  _ what?” _

Whiskey smiles weakly.

“I know. Extremely long shot.”

“I mean, yeah,” Miguel agrees. He still looks sort of shaken. “Are you, um. Do you play well?”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says. He doesn’t need to hesitate on that one. “I really do. Although there’s a lot of really good players out there, so there’s absolutely no guarantee that I’ll ever make it. But I just know that I have to try. I  _ have  _ to. Failure can’t be worse than living with so much regret.”

Miguel nods, thoughtfully. And this time, Whiskey notes with relief, he looks more understanding than confused.

“I get that,” Miguel tells him gently. “I really, really do.”

Then he starts to smile.

Whiskey quirks an eyebrow.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Miguel says, even as his smile keeps widening. “It’s silly, it’s just... I just  _ knew  _ that you’re a Slytherin, you had to be. And I was totally right!”

“Oh,” Whiskey says. Then he grins. “Actually, no – Beauxbatons Academy all the way.”

“Right,” Miguel laughs. “How could I possibly forget?”

“Maybe I’ll take you there sometime,” Whiskey offers loftily, surprising himself – he has never,  _ ever  _ been this smooth. “France should be nice, this time of year.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Miguel returns, his tone irresistibly playful. “How’s Saturday?”

“Saturday’s... “ Whiskey begins, before pausing. “We have a game, Saturday.”

“That’s totally fine with me,” Miguel says, and for some reason it sounds like the answer to a question. “What time?”

Oh.

Oh, fuck. Fucking  _ fuck. _

Then again, everything went perfectly fine with Beth. Why should this be so different?

“Four p.m.,” Whiskey says bravely. “There’s, uh. There’s going to be a party, after.”

“Oh,” Miguel says, tilting his head in a way that looks a little bit indecisive. “At the hockey frat, I guess?”

“The very one,” Whiskey confirms. And then he continues, quite firmly, before he changes his mind. “You should come.”

“Okay,” Miguel agrees, his expression immediately brightening, almost as if those three words were the password he’d been waiting to hear. “Cool. I’ll be there.”

“Cool,” Whiskey repeats stupidly, his mind still spinning from this unexpected turn of events – what in the world is he going to tell the team? And, perhaps more importantly, what is he going to  _ wear? _

Miguel grins.

“Cool,” he parrots back, his tone amused. “Super cool. The coolest of cool.”

“Right.” Whiskey swallows. Wasn’t he totally smooth, like, five minutes ago? Where did that Whiskey go? “Should we, uh… Should we maybe study?”

“I mean, probably,” Miguel says. Except he doesn’t reach for his book. “Hey. Do you wanna go get ice cream?”

Whiskey blinks. Miguel is smiling towards him, that same playful smile from before. It’s still completely irresistible.

They get chocolate ice cream at the murder Stop-n-Shop.

It’s probably not the best ice cream Whiskey’s had in years. Yet somehow, it tastes like it is.


	12. potential

“Hey, Whiskey. Whisk. Yo! Earth to Whiskey, hello?"

Belatedly, Whiskey looks up from his phone.

Tango is watching him from the opposite stall with a somewhat bemused expression.

“Whatever Beth is texting you about, it absolutely can’t be _ that _ interesting.”

Whiskey reluctantly locks his screen, despite the fact that those three little dots clearly indicate that Miguel is already texting him back. Again. Almost as if Miguel is actually enjoying their near constant back-and-forth just as much as Whiskey is.

There’s an oddly fluttery feeling in Whiskey’s stomach. He feels… Calmer than he thought he would, sure, but still more nervous than he’s been before a game in a long time. To think that Miguel is out there, in the audience, about to watch him play – to think that Whiskey is taking Miguel back to the Haus, after, that Miguel is coming along to the kegster. Whiskey still has no fucking clue what he’s going to tell the team, unless you count the vague idea of as little as possible.

At least he’s managed to pick out an outfit.

“Whisk? Hey, Whiskey!”

Whiskey looks back up at Tango – he has no idea how long he spaced out this time, but apparently it’s been long enough for Tango’s expression to shift from amused into suspicious.

Fuck.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I was just asking if you'd want to run by Stop-n-Shop, after,” Tango says, slowly. “Hey. Are you-”

“Let’s show those Yale boys what we’re all about!” Whiskey lets out a breath as coach Hall steps into the locker room, effectively interrupting whatever Tango was going to ask. "Remember, we want to be the ones setting the pace tonight – we're going for a strong offense, right from the get go. Lyons, Brant, make sure you're always keeping an eye on each other, and on Chow, even when you're moving up the ice. Piper, Whisk, I’m going to need to borrow you two for a couple of minutes – please come with me. I promise this will be quick.”

Whiskey looks up, meeting coach Hall’s eyes and giving a quick nod. Then he searches for Pips’s gaze across the locker room, raising an eyebrow in question.

Pips looks equally bewildered.

Coach Hall leads them out of the locker room, down a corridor and then left, and it takes Whiskey that long to realize they’re heading over to coach Hall’s office. For a brief moment he wonders if he should feel concerned, but then they’re stepping inside and Whiskey comes face to face with a man and a woman dressed smartly in tailored, black suits. The woman is wearing heels, and the man is carrying a briefcase. They both look decidedly friendly, if a little intimidating in their impeccableness.

The meeting is brief, just like coach Hall indicated, but it’s still something of an out-of-body experience. Because it can’t be real, not  _ really  _ real, the way coach Hall just said Whiskey’s name in the same sentence as  _ one of the most agile and adaptable players I’ve had the pleasure to work with _ and  _ Connor has taken on more of a leading role on our team this season, on and off the ice. _

It’s not like Whiskey doesn’t know he’s good at hockey – really good, even – but there’s a significant difference between plain old _ really good _ and all those impossible things coach Hall just claimed.

Yet somehow, the game managers for the Houston Aeros look sufficiently impressed.

“You two have shown some particularly great teamwork, during the first half of this season,” the woman chimes in – Whiskey  _ thinks  _ she said her last name is Larsen, maybe? She probably mentioned a first name, too. Whiskey wishes his mind would stop spinning. “Of course, we’ve had the opportunity to watch Connor play several times last season as well.”

“Oh,” Whiskey says eloquently.

Larsen smiles.

“It’s very impressive to see how quickly you have adjusted to playing with new teammates,” she adds, turning towards Pips. “And evidently, Samwell continues to attract players with a lot of potential. Nathan Piper, is it? Very nice to meet you, too. You’ve been racking up some quite impressive statistics, so far.”

“Thank you,” Pips says carefully, almost unsurely. “I’ve really been able to learn so much, since I came to Samwell. And Whiske… Uh, Connor’s been a great help. The whole Samwell team is so great.”

Whiskey smiles, briefly.

“Sounds to me like you’re both thriving,” Larsen continues brightly. “We’re very much looking forward to watching you play tonight, as well as seeing how your performance continues during this season. Both of you, of course.”

Yet as she speaks, she shifts her focus back towards Whiskey.

“Connor, when do you graduate? This spring?”

“Next spring,” Whiskey corrects her. “I’m a junior, this year.”

Larsen pauses, almost unnoticeably.

“Right,” she continues, just as pleasantly as before. “Very good to know. Well, we’d certainly like to keep in touch with you both. Here – you should take my card.”

Whiskey accepts it and glances at it briefly – Emily Larsen, GM of the Houston Aeros. Right.

And somehow, that’s it.

After they’ve left the room, walked back down the corridor and turned the corner, Pips stops abruptly.

“Oh my God.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says quietly, staring at the card in his hand. “I know.”

“Holy shit. What the actual fucking  _ fuck.” _

Whiskey leans back against the wall. He offers Pips a small smile – because really, Pips’s bewildered expression is just so precious, it almost makes Whiskey forget his own internal turmoil.

“Ever thought about it?” he asks loftily. “Going pro.”

_ “Me?” _ Pips all but squeaks, and there’s a joke waiting to be made there somewhere. “The NHL? Are you crazy?”

“Apparently not.” Whiskey grins slightly. “I have it on good authority that The Houston Aeros think you have plenty of potential.”

“Fuck you, don’t even say that.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear this much, Pips.”

“What about you?” Pips asks, completely ignoring all of Whiskey’s chirps. “Do you wanna do it?”

That makes Whiskey pause. It’s a serious question.

“Yeah,” he says, after a beat. “Yes. I’m going to.”

Pips’s eyes widen.

“You’ll play for the Houston Aeros?”

“Not necessarily the Aeros,” Whiskey adds quickly. “But play in the NHL? Yeah. That’s the idea.”

It’s something he’s been saying out loud more and more often, lately. Somehow, that makes it seem less like the dream it’s always been, and more like an actual possibility. It’s weird. The words hanging in the air between them shouldn’t feel more like a tangible, irreversible truth than the business card he’s holding in his hand.

“Wow,” Pips breathes out. “I’ve never, like… Thought of that as something you can just  _ do.” _

“I’m sure it won’t be anywhere near that easy,” Whiskey says honestly. “But I know I’m going to try.”

“That’s so cool,” Pips says. His eyes are wide. “And I mean, if anyone can do it, it’s you. It’s definitely you.”

Whiskey laughs a little.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I’m serious!” Pips sounds almost insulted on Whiskey’s behalf. “You are by  _ far  _ the best player on this team. By far. You’re so fast, and you play so  _ smart, _ and you’re agile and adaptable and all those things coach Hall said in there. And I learn so,  _ so _ much from you, every day. I play so much better when I play with you. We all do.”

“Hey, now,” Whiskey says abruptly. He has literally no idea what to do with that information. “We, uh. We should be getting back. Got a game to play, remember?”

Pips grins. He looks unfairly relaxed for someone who has just articulated his private thoughts and feelings out loud. How do people just  _ do _ that?

“A game to _ win,  _ right?” Pips chirps.

“Yeah,” Whiskey agrees, absentmindedly.

Impulsively, he reaches out to ruffle Pips’s hair, just a bit – sort of in the same way he might’ve pet a cute little puppy, if he liked dogs, or tried to mess with an annoying little brother, if he had one. A friendly, affirming gesture. Sort of.

Or not. Because unfortunately, what felt like a good and reasonable idea in Whiskey’s mind feels like an overly stiff and unnatural motion in reality, and for a second Whiskey takes the opportunity to thoroughly regret his entire existence.

(It’s never been a completely conscious thing, how Whiskey has always been careful not to touch his teammates outside of a celly. It’s not something he’s particularly inclined to think about now, either.)

Somehow, it had just felt like the right thing to do, in that moment – something in place of those right words to say that Whiskey will surely never find, right in between  _ thank you _ and  _ I like playing with you, too _ and  _ I’m here for you. I see you. I’ll always have your back. _

Still. Pips doesn’t look at all bothered.

Instead, Pips – even with his hair ruffled – looks otherwise… Unruffled? For some reason, Whiskey’s impossibly awkward gesture only makes him grin wider than before. And in Pips’s eyes, there’s something surprisingly like recognition. Like understanding. Almost as if Pips has somehow heard all those words Whiskey will never speak.

“Race you back!”

And then Pips takes off. Whiskey blinks, watching him go, dumbfounded.

Then he gets moving.


	13. exactly right

They don't win.

It’s not their first loss nor anywhere near their worst, but the team is still predictably subdued as they pile back into the locker room. Whiskey makes for his stall and slumps into it, closing his eyes and allowing himself one minute to just breathe, and think of nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Then he gets back up, and crosses the room.

“Pips. Hey, Pips.”

Pips, preoccupied with slowly and methodically unlacing his skates, barely looks up.

“Hey,” Whiskey repeats, his tone a little gentler. “Good shot.”

Pips shrugs.

“Great angle,” Whiskey continues patiently. “Good call.”

“Would’ve been,” Pips mumbles. “If I hadn’t missed.”

“It  _ was  _ a great angle.” Whiskey’s tone is firm. “Yale’s got a killer defense, you know they do. We all knew this would be a tough one. But we almost had it – we could’ve won – and if we’d won it would’ve been because we played good, solid hockey, we stuck to our strategy and it really worked. I honestly think this is one of the best games we’ve played, this season.”

“Easy for you to say,” Pips points out, his tone still a little quiet. “Nice goal, by the way.”

Whiskey pauses for a moment. Pips is right – it was a nice goal. Maybe even the kind of goal that would’ve still been on Whiskey’s mind, last season, whether or not Samwell had won or lost in the end. This year, Whiskey can’t say he’s been as focused on his own achievements as he once used to be. Or maybe, it’s just become more difficult to separate the idea of his own progress from the progress they make as a team.

“I’d never have scored that goal without the assist from Jader,” Whiskey points out. “Which  _ you  _ set up, as I recall – beautiful pass, there. We should go over that sequence again at practice, see if we can make it into a new play.”

Pips shrugs.

“We still lost, in the end,” he reminds Whiskey, as if Whiskey might somehow have forgotten. Still, he sounds significantly less shattered. “This sucks. I’m so exhausted, I could sleep for a week.”

“How about you shower, first,” Whiskey suggests firmly. “Come on. We still have the kegster.”

Pips makes a face that’s somewhere right in between a frown and a grimace.

“Remember, you’re not allowed at post-keg breakfast unless you actually come to the kegster,” Whiskey makes up, perhaps a little bit too quickly. “And I’m baking, so. You kind of have to come.”

“Not sure if I’ve ever seen that in the bylaws,” Pips chirps back, without any real bite. “You making scones?”

“I fucking hope so, since I literally can’t bake anything else.”

“Ugh. Fine, then.” Pips’s expression changes into something that isn’t  _ not _ a smile. “Now leave me alone so I can actually shower.”

Whiskey smiles back, relieved.

He straightens up, and looks around. The rest of the team still seems to be in varying stages of grief. Dex is across the room caught up in a quiet conversation with Louis, his expression predictably earnest – he looks up just long enough to catch Whiskey’s eye and jerk his head in Joyo’s general direction, probably because Joyo looks like he’s about to be fucking sick.

Whiskey spares a second to offer Dex a single nod. Then he goes.

Much,  _ much  _ later, Whiskey finally makes it out of the locker room.

Technically speaking, he isn’t late. Because thankfully, he did have the sense to inform Miguel that it might take him a little while before they could meet up, after the game. Still, Miguel probably didn’t expect _ a little while _ to equal almost two hours.

Maybe it’s just as well, Whiskey thinks miserably. Maybe he's been pathetically nervous all week about taking a boy to the post-game kegster for absolutely no reason at all.

A little out of breath, Whiskey half-jogs the last few steps down the corridor before finally pushing the door open, stepping into the night. Their agreed-upon meeting place is just around the corner. As Whiskey makes the turn, he fully expects to find it completely empty.

It’s not.

Miguel is sitting cross-legged on the steps to the side entrance of Faber. He’s typing something on his phone, his fingers moving rapidly, which is why he hasn’t seemed to notice Whiskey’s presence just yet. He looks… Really pretty. Almost more so than usually.

Whiskey pauses for a moment.

It feels more than a little bit surreal, now that the moment is finally here. This is actually happening. Miguel has waited for him, all this time, and any minute now Whiskey will go over to him, and say hi, and then he’ll-

Miguel looks up.

Whiskey’s breath catches as their eyes meet.

Immediately, Miguel gets to his feet.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” Whiskey manages a few steps forward. There. He can totally do this. “I’m so sorry I took so long.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Miguel shifts his feet. He’s smiling a little, in a way that makes him look uncharacteristically shy. “I’m not sure what the protocol is for when you play super well but don’t actually win… Congratulations is probably wrong, but that goal? Was seriously awesome.”

“Thanks.” Whiskey clears his throat. He’s not sure what the protocol is for any of this. “Um. Should we…?”

“Yeah, yes.” Miguel sticks his hands in his pockets. “D’you… It’s this way, right? The hockey frat.”

“The Haus,” Whiskey corrects him automatically. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

Miguel continues to chat about the game as they walk, bringing up details about Whiskey's playing that are specific enough for Whiskey to wonder if Miguel has watched any of the other players much at all. It’s kind of sweet, in a way that Whiskey hasn't been sure if he has any reason to expect, tonight.

Because it's not like Whiskey actually knows whether or not Miguel thinks of this as a date. Whether or not Miguel even wants it to be.

When they get there, the kegster seems to be nearing full swing.

Whiskey gets them each a cup of tub juice, which Miguel has several intrigued questions about, and that conversation carries them inside. Without any real plan, Whiskey leads Miguel into the kitchen. The volume is a little less unbearable there, and Whiskey is nowhere near ready to be faced with a dance floor just yet.

They say hello to Tango and Louis, who both appear almost disappointingly unfazed when Whiskey introduces Miguel. Still, when Dex looks up from his pie dough long enough to spare them a glance, Whiskey isn't entirely comfortable with how Dex’s eyes dart curiously between Whiskey and Miguel, either.

"This is by far the nicest frat house I've ever been to." Miguel sips his tub juice, his gaze moving from the colorful curtains to the potted plants on the windowsill. "You have to tell me your secret. D'you lot have a housekeeper cooped up in the basement, or something?"

"Not a housekeeper, exactly," Whiskey says, grinning slightly. "But he does actually live in the basement."

"Hey!" Dex protests cheerfully. "I'll have you know Bitty called my bungalow a five-star resort."

"Was that before or after you installed the jacuzzi?" Tango asks.

Miguel catches Whiskey's eyes, his eyebrows raised.

"No, really." Whiskey shrugs. "Dex built a bungalow in the basement. With a jacuzzi."

"Right. Suddenly, I'm not as impressed by the houseplants." Miguel smiles. "Who's Bitty?"

"Oh, he was our captain last year," Louis tells him. "Solid dude. And of course the first out NCAA men’s hockey captain. Hey, Dex, does that make you the second?"

"Dunno, there's this dude in Colorado who came out around the same time." Dex shrugs. "And there's out players in lots of places, this year."

"As there should be." Tango raises his can of beer, grinning. "Here's to us, blazing the trail as the gayest NCAA team there is!"

Whiskey shakes his head, smiling a little as he takes a drink with the rest of them. Miguel meets his eyes again over the top of his cup. His expression is somewhat difficult to read – he looks both curious and, for some reason, a little doubtful.

"I never really got why Bitty gave you his dibs," Tango tells Whiskey, before Miguel has the chance to ask anything else. "Obviously, super well deserved. I just didn't think you two were ever that close."

It's just like Tango, to be asking a question even when he technically isn't.

"Dibs?" Miguel repeats with interest.

"His room," Whiskey says quickly. "I got Bitty's room, when he moved out." He turns towards Tango. "I don't know. We had some good conversations, I guess."

"Well, then that must've..." Tango begins, then stops. He grins. "Hey. That's the song, isn't it?"

As if on cue, Ford bursts through the door.

"Legends only!" she hollers, grinning happily towards Tango and Whiskey before noticing Miguel's presence between them. "Oh. Hello, there."

"Ford, this is Miguel, we’re.... He's in my class, and-"

"Yes, great, we can all meet later. Now  _ come on." _ Ford gestures wildly towards the living room. "We have to dance!"

They pile out of the kitchen, Miguel sticking close to Whiskey. Thankfully, he looks mostly amused, as opposed to completely and utterly panicked. Whiskey wishes he could say the same for himself.

It's not too bad, at first.  _ I wanna dance with somebody _ has been the song of their trio for a while, now – Whiskey can’t quite pinpoint when exactly that happened, but that doesn’t make it any less true – and so it’s not the first time he’s found himself in the middle of the Haus dance floor making himself look ridiculous next to Ford and Tango. He’s done this before, and it’s not so different with Miguel right there beside him, smiling and moving to the music. If anything, it’s a little better. A little more.

The next song is different.

It’s still up-tempo, thank  _ God, _ and they all keep dancing, but there’s something about the sound of this song, or maybe the lyrics, that makes Whiskey look over towards Miguel a lot more. Surprisingly, Miguel is looking at him too. Miguel is looking at Whiskey a whole fucking  _ lot. _ Maybe he’s been, the whole time since they got to the Haus – or maybe, if Whiskey thinks about it, Miguel has kind of been paying close attention to him for a lot longer than that.

Out of the corner of his eye, Whiskey sees Dex pull Nursey into a kiss. Across the room, Joyo is stepping into Jader’s personal space without any hesitation, and then they’re both disappearing out of the Haus, their hands loosely intertwined.  _ There’s nothing holding me back  _ croons the singer on the track, his voice raw and hungry and desperate, and all of a sudden, Whiskey wants to scream.

He needs to get out of there.

“Hey,” he says, getting Miguel’s attention – not that he didn’t have it, already. “D’you want-”

“Yeah.” Miguel doesn’t even wait for Whiskey to finish the sentence. “Sure. Sounds good.”

“Okay.” Whiskey breathes, in and out. “Okay. This way.”

He leads Miguel through the crowd, out into the hallway and up the stairs. Before he can think too much about it, they’re stepping into Whiskey’s bedroom. Unfortunately, the state of it is truly a testament to the fact that Whiskey never imagined tonight playing out quite like this.

“Man, I wish I didn't share a dorm room.” Miguel is looking around himself, a little curiously. He doesn’t seem to mind the unmade bed or the dirty laundry discarded in various places. “I’m hoping to move into the water polo frat, next semester – we don’t have a dibs system, so there’s basically just a list, and…”

Miguel trails off. He’s looking at Whiskey, who’s sitting on the edge of his bed, still struggling to keep his breaths even.

“Hey,” Miguel says gently. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Whiskey manages, before shaking his head. “No. Not really.”

“Okay.” Miguel shifts his feet. “D’you… Should I go?”

“No,” Whiskey says immediately. He looks up at Miguel, his mind suddenly a little clearer. “No, I’m… I’d like it if you stayed. Please.”

Miguel studies his expression for a moment, biting his lower lip, and all of a sudden it seems like he finds what he’s been looking for all this time. He takes a step forward, then another, until he’s slowly walked all the way over to Whiskey. Carefully, and very deliberately, he reaches out to gently trace his fingertips across Whiskey’s cheek.

“I’m not reading this wrong, am I?” he asks, his tone quiet. “Whiskey. Please say something.”

Whiskey takes a steadying breath.

“You’re exactly right,” he admits, his voice coming out rougher than he expected. “Exactly right. Miguel, I’m… I want-”

“Okay,” Miguel breathes out. “Okay. Good.”

Then he leans in.

It’s a wonderful kiss, soft and languid and unhurried, and Whiskey lets his eyes fall shut. He can’t believe that this is actually happening. Can’t believe how he ever got so lucky.

There’s a noise from the stairs, and then someone passes by out in the hallway. Whiskey pulls back, abruptly.

“I’m not out,” he says hurriedly.

Miguel blinks.

“Oh,” he says, clearly startled. “Okay, that’s… Okay.”

“Can I…” Whiskey licks his lips. “Can I close the door?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

Quickly, Whiskey crosses the room and closes the door. Then he turns around. Miguel sits down in the space Whiskey just vacated, his expression a little confused.

The moment has passed.

Whiskey pulls out his desk chair and sinks down into it.

“I’m sorry,” he adds, even though he’s not sure what good it’ll do. Still, it’s the truth. “I’m so sorry that I’m not… That we can’t just-”

“No. Stop.” Miguel’s tone is firm. “You’ve done nothing wrong. Obviously, you’re not required to be out. It’s hardly mandatory.”

“It would make things easier,” Whiskey argues weakly.

“Maybe, yeah.” Miguel shrugs. He smiles a little. “This actually explains so much.”

“I’m so sorry,” Whiskey repeats, then continues before Miguel can protest again. “Are you, uh. Are you out?”

“Yeah. I came out at the end of last semester.” Miguel shrugs again. “I’m the only one on the water polo team, but they’ve all been very cool about it. Maybe not  _ quite  _ as cool as your team, but that’s kind of asking for a lot, isn’t it?”

“Samwell Men’s Hockey is a special place,” Whiskey agrees. It doesn’t make him feel any less guilty. “I’m just… I don’t know, if…”

Whiskey trails off. He’s not even sure what he’s trying to say.

“Okay,” Miguel says calmly. He tilts his head, his expression shifting into something a little less hesitant. “So.”

There’s something in his tone that Whiskey can’t quite place. He’s never been so confused by a single syllable, before.

“So,” Miguel repeats, a little more firmly. “Does this mean kissing’s off the table, or…?”

Whiskey stares at him.

“No,” he says, at least five seconds too late. “No, that’s… You still want to?”

“Uh, yes?” Miguel grins sheepishly. “I mean, only if you do, too. No pressure. We can just chill, or whatever.”

“Um.” Whiskey licks his lips. “No, I’m… I’d actually really like that.”

Miguel's grin widens, just a bit.

Then he gets up, and quickly makes his way over.


	14. strategy

“There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Dex looks up, startled.

There’s only a handful of people who know that Dex spends most of his lunch breaks in the theatre club’s wood workshop. Ford is in on it, of course, since she literally gave him a key. Then there's Joyo, who inevitably ran into Dex within less than a week – if there's one person on the hockey team Dex had known he'd encounter all the way across campus in the art building, it's definitely Joyo. It really hadn't been much of a surprise when Joyo had stepped out of the pottery studio right opposite just as Dex was locking up the workshop. Dex had been prepared, had already made up his mind to simply tell Joyo exactly what he was up to and ask that Joyo keep it a secret. (Joyo had sworn, most dutifully, not to tell a single living soul. It had been unexpectedly sweet.)

Other than that, the only people who know are the theatre kids themselves, who have graciously granted Dex the use of a corner of their workshop in exchange for his advice on the construction of a few of their more elaborate set pieces. Which is why Dex is more than a little bit surprised to find Whiskey standing before him, out of breath in a way that suggests he’s just run all the way across campus.

“How did you know I was here?” Dex can’t help but wonder.

“Ford,” Whiskey says, and suddenly Dex feels silly for asking. Of  _ course  _ Ford would tell Whiskey, if Whiskey needed to know. There’s probably more sacred pacts between Whiskey and Tango and Ford than between all the other team members put together. “This is kind of important, and she… Wait. What’re you  _ doing?” _

Dex looks down at his work for a moment, contemplating his answer. He’s actually gotten pretty far. The red oak boards he’s using for the surface of the table are glued together, and he’s currently in the process of using a hand plane to smoothen it out before he can move on to sanding. Still, there’s actually nothing that gives away what it is that Dex is making, exactly, which is presently to his advantage. He's always intended to tell as few people as possible, just in case.

“I’m using a hand plane to even out the surface of this red oak,” Dex settles on.

Whiskey looks down at the tool in Dex’s hands. He blinks, once. Then he shakes his head a little.

“Sure,” he says, and looks up to face Dex again. “D’you have a second? I’ve kind of got… This thing.”

“Of course.” Dex puts down his things and leans back against his work bench. “What’s up?”

Whiskey, who has obviously gone to great lengths to speak to Dex as soon as he possibly could, hesitates.

Dex raises both eyebrows, a little curiously.

Whiskey clears his throat.

“There’s this guy,” he says, the words coming out in a rush.

“Oh,” Dex says. He feels pleasantly surprised. "That's… That's great, Whiskey."

It’s been so long since their pivotal conversation out on the porch, during the first kegster of the fall, that Dex has started to Whiskey might never bring this up again. Apparently, he was wrong.

Whiskey sighs, running a hand through his hair. He isn't  _ not _ smiling, but it's a near thing.

“Honestly? I'm not actually sure.”

"Okay," Dex says slowly. He's far from certain of how he's supposed to navigate this. Especially since Whiskey doesn't seem at all inclined to take the lead. "D'you wanna… What's he like?"

That makes Whiskey look away briefly, possibly in an attempt to hide the way his expression softens.

"He's, um. He's kind of amazing. Completely out of my league. I've got no idea why he keeps wanting to spend so much time with me."

Dex smiles.

"It sounds like he likes you, too?"

"I guess," Whiskey says carefully. "On some level, at least. We, um. We've been studying together, and also… Not studying together. Lately, it's kind of been more of the latter."

"Right." Dex tries not to grin too widely. "Good for you, man."

Whiskey cheeks turn a little pink. It's completely out of character and strangely endearing.

"Well, anyway," Whiskey says quickly, with a sudden willingness to move the conversation forward. "The thing is, I'm not out. And he is. And I really want something that's more than whatever we're doing right now, but it's not like I could ask him to go back in the closet. So I'm just not sure what to do."

"... Huh." Dex ponders that for a moment. "And you're not planning on coming out?"

"No," Whiskey says, very firmly. "I'm not going to. That's not an option, here."

"Alright," Dex agrees gently. "That's completely okay, Whiskey. I'm just trying to get the full picture."

"I know that," Whiskey says quickly. "It's just, I've been thinking about that a lot, myself. I'd be asking so much less from him if I at least thought I might come out at some point, maybe in a few years or something. But I'm just not going to do that."

"Right." Dex nods, smiling. "Years, huh?"

Whiskey frowns, a little defensively.

"That's completely okay," Dex repeats firmly. "What I mean is, you're clearly thinking about this guy in a very long-term sense. He must be someone pretty special."

Whiskey looks away abruptly.

"I know. I'm being so stupid," he says quietly. "He probably thinks of this as just a bit of fun, or whatever. And even if he doesn't, a lot of relationships don't actually last past college. I know that. It's just, I tend to consider any important decision in a very long-term sense, and I do really like this guy a lot. A  _ lot, _ a lot. So much that I could definitely see myself with him years down the line. Even if that does make me a presumptuous fucking idiot."

Dex takes a moment to ponder that. Suddenly, he's almost tempted to tell Whiskey the true purpose of the unfinished wooden table next to them. He wonders how Whiskey might react, if he did. It's not something he's ever considered before – he's been too busy wondering what Nursey will think of it, once he eventually gets to see it.

It's the question that's been occupying both Dex's waking thoughts and his dreams, lately, whether or not Nursey will actually say yes.

"I don't think you're being stupid," Dex tells Whiskey softly. He traces his fingertips across the surface of the red oak. "It's not necessarily a bad thing to know exactly what you want from someone. I think the really important thing is going to be how you tell him."

Whiskey raises both eyebrows. He looks incredulous.

"You think I should  _ tell _ him?"

"Well, yes." Dex smiles. "If you want to be with this guy, then he's going to need to know where you're at, here. He's not going to magically read your mind."

"But I can't just…" Whiskey begins, before faltering. "I mean. If I come on that strong, and that's not how he feels… Then what?"

"Well." Dex thinks for a moment. "You might not want to lead with the bit about years down the line. But I don't think you should necessarily leave it out. He might not have considered any of that just yet, for sure, but there's a major difference between asking him how he feels about it as opposed to just letting him know it's something you could see in your future."

"I guess." Whiskey sighs. "We might not even get to that point in the conversation. If he isn't okay with having a relationship behind closed doors, it's game over. And I sort of doubt that's anything he's ever dreamed of."

Dex hums. "Has he said something like that?"

Whiskey thinks for a second.

"Not exactly. But I can't imagine he came out because he's a big fan of hiding."

"Right," Dex agrees. "But I guess you've been meeting up pretty discreetly so far? For your, what was it…. Non-studying sessions."

"We do actually study, sometimes," Whiskey says quickly, his cheeks turning distinctly pink again – under different circumstances, Dex thinks privately, he'd have charged a major fine right there. "We have a class together and everything."

"Oh, let me guess," Dex chirps, grinning. "Anatomy of the human body. Project partners. In-depth study.”

"Oh, for  _ fucks _ sake. No." Whiskey rolls his eyes. "We've been kissing non-stop, if you must know. But nothing more. Not yet, anyway."

For a second, Dex mentally kicks himself for teasing Whiskey to a point where he felt obligated to share something so private. Except, there's a change in Whiskey's expression after he's said it. He catches Dex's eyes, a small smile playing over his lips, almost like he's waiting for Dex's reaction. And that's when Dex remembers – Whiskey doesn't actually get to  _ do _ this, like, ever. He never shares in their jokes about being a disaster bi or too gay to function, never comments on whether Chris Evans is hotter than Chris Pratt or which one of them he'd rather fuck or marry. To Whiskey, boy talk is a rarity, a luxury he seldom allows himself to enjoy.

Suddenly, Dex wonders if he ought to have teased Whiskey more.

"Sounds like plenty of fun to me," Dex settles on, offering Whiskey a grin. "For what it's worth, it sounds like this guy is more than a little bit into you."

"God, I hope you're right." Whiskey runs a hand through his hair, almost absently. He's still smiling. "If him and I could actually work out, that’d be… I don't know. Almost too perfect.”

"Talk to him," Dex encourages readily. "And let me know how it goes."

"Yeah. Okay." Whiskey exhales. "Now I just need to come up with a decent plan."

Dex barely resists rolling his eyes. Of course Whiskey would require a solid strategy, before attempting a high-risk play like this.

"I'm sure you'll come up with something great. You already know this guy fairly well, right?"

"For sure, yeah, I… Wait." Whiskey snaps his fingers. "Yes. You're  _ right." _

Dex raises a curious eyebrow.

"So," Whiskey continues quickly. "On a not unrelated note... Is there any chance I could borrow your truck, sometime? Maybe this Sunday?"

"Of course," Dex promises. "Whatever you need. I'm rooting for you guys."

"Thank you." Whiskey smiles again, and there's a weight to his words that probably doesn't have a whole lot to do with Dex's truck, specifically. "Dex, thank you so much. Truly."

Dex returns his smile. He wonders, not for the first time, who the fuck he should offer his dibs to now that Whiskey already lives in the Haus.

"Anytime. And good luck."


	15. about us

Whiskey can't quite keep his hands from shaking as he types out the message. He reads through it once, changes a couple of words and then briefly considers adding some sort of emoji. He doesn’t. Instead, he makes himself hit send before he has the time to lose his nerve.

_ I'll be driving to Boston on Sunday to take care of a couple things, wanna come with? Figured I might as well make a day out of it. _

Within a minute, he gets the notification for a reply.

_ sounds like fun. do I get to choose the music? _

_ Sure. Pick you up around eight? _

Whiskey doesn't let himself reread that message until after he's sent it. God, it almost sounds like he’s making plans for a date. No, actually – it sounds  _ exactly _ like plans for a date. So much for the whole charade of pretending that some mundane errand is his main reason for their outing.

_ ugh, so early? I'll be requiring a cappuccino, Annie's or bust. _

When Miguel lets himself into the passenger seat of the truck Sunday morning, greeting Whiskey with nothing but a yawn and tired smile, Whiskey merely nods towards him as he silently hands him an Annie's take away cup.

"Oh, thank God." Miguel takes a sip, closing his eyes briefly. "Don’t you sleep in, like, ever?"

"Not really," Whiskey admits. He starts the truck and puts it in reverse. "I was at the gym this morning."

"Of course you were," Miguel mutters. "Man, if I was half as serious as you about  _ anything, _ I'd… Oh."

Whiskey glances towards him. Miguel has opened his eyes again, and for some reason he seems to have zeroed in on Whiskey's hands.

"What?"

"Nothing." Miguel looks away abruptly. "Never mind me. Eyes on the road.”

Whiskey does look back ahead, but raises both eyebrows curiously. Miguel clears his throat lightly. He digs his phone out of his pocket.

“I’m loving the retro chick vibe of this truck, but I’m guessing bluetooth’s out of the question? Is there an aux cord?”

“Retro chic,” Whiskey parrots back, amused enough to let whatever just happened slide. “Yeah, you can plug in right there.”

“It’s all about the aesthetic, man.” Miguel grins, tapping merrily on his phone. “Okay. I’ve got no idea what you usually listen to, but this playlist’s got lots of different genres.”

After the first three songs have all been Panic! At The Disco, Whiskey feels the need to make a couple of chirps on the definition of the word  _ different, _ but then the next three tracks are Billy Joel and Robyn and Blackpink, respectively. It turns out they’re both big fans of The Script and have actually both seen them live on the No Sound Without Silence tour, albeit not at the exact same concert. Miguel waves his hands in excitement as goes off on various tangents about which songs he loves the most and exactly why, almost spilling coffee all over himself at one point, and there’s more than one moment where Whiskey laments the fact that he really must keep his eyes on the road.

By the time Whiskey hits the turn signal for their exit, he’s almost starting to relax a little. So far, so good.

“Hey, I almost forgot,” Miguel says. “You never said where we’re actually going?”

“Boston,” Whiskey supplies ambiguously.

“Ha, ha. Where in Boston?”

“A presently undisclosed location.” Whiskey glances briefly at Miguel. “It’s a surprise.”

He catches Miguel’s soft smile before he has to look back ahead.

“A surprise, huh?”

“Yeah.” Whiskey tries to keep his tone somewhat neutral. “I wanted to… Yeah.”

“I thought you had stuff to do?”

“I mean, surprising you isn’t _ not _ doing stuff,” Whiskey argues, even though he knows that’s only a backwards way of admitting that Miguel’s got it right. “It’s just… Other stuff.”

For the first time all morning, he’s glad he doesn’t need to meet Miguel’s eyes.

“Depends on the surprise, doesn’t it?” Miguel teases. He sounds pleased. “Fine, don’t tell me. I’ll just have to figure it all out, anyway.”

“Get ready to figure out the first part.” Whiskey pulls into a parking lot. “Here we are.”

“There’s a second part? You know, I’m almost starting to think… Oh my God. Pancakes!”

Whiskey grins. Miguel actually sounds pretty excited.

“How did you know that I haven’t had breakfast?” Miguel questions eagerly.

“You rolled out of bed with less than a minute to spare and put on the first thing you saw in your closet,” Whiskey says matter of factly. He turns off the ignition. “You’ve literally told me that’s your normal routine.”

“I mean, kind of.” Miguel smiles playfully. “But hey, at least you still get to enjoy these effortlessly good looks. Not everyone can look this cute without even really trying, you know.”

“Well,” Whiskey says quietly. Finally, he gets to look over and meet Miguel’s eyes properly. “Fair point.”

Miguel bites his lower lip. Suddenly, his gaze is intent on Whiskey.

“Is this… Too public? Or can we, um. Y’know.”

Whiskey throws a quick glance outside the truck. The parking lot is empty, thank  _ God _ – quickly, he leans over. It’s a brief kiss, over almost before it’s begun, but Whiskey still feels Miguel’s soft lips smile against his own.

“Come on,” Whiskey mumbles. There’s two more steps to his carefully crafted plan, and he intends to see them both through. “Pancakes. On me.”

The menu at iHOP is ridiculous, but not more ridiculous than the smile on Miguel’s face when the waiter presents him with his mountain of blueberry pancakes with maple syrup and bacon. Unsurprisingly, it’s completely adorable.

The drive over to their second destination is brief. They’re still several blocks away when, suddenly, Miguel goes very quiet.

“Almost there,” Whiskey says, in an attempt to fill out the silence. And just like that, he’s nervous all over again. “You, uh. You good?”

“Are you  _ kidding?” _ Miguel says incredulously – a good kind of incredulous, if his tone is any indication. “I don’t believe you. Is this really where we’re going?”

“I thought you might like it,” Whiskey says carefully. “They’ve got this new exhibit that’s just opened, it’s the Indo-pacific-”

“Coral reef,” Miguel interrupts eagerly. “Yes, I know, I’ve literally got their tweets on alerts. It sounds amazing. And they’ve got this big ocean tank that’s four storys high, you can walk all around it and see every part from a different angle, plus they do absolutely  _ incredible  _ work with their sea turtle rescue program.” He grins widely. “I love the New England Aquarium.”

“Oh. Well, good.” There’s plenty of available parking space, still, since the aquarium has only just opened. Whiskey gets them a spot close to the entrance. “I’ve actually never been.”

“Then you’re in for a treat.” Miguel is already undoing his seatbelt. “Come on! I can’t wait to show you everything.”

When Miguel said  _ everything, _ he wasn’t kidding. They spend over half an hour at the first exhibit, since Miguel apparently needs to explain in exact detail why the Amazon rainforest is actually one of the most diverse habitats in the world, and then a whole hour goes by as they watch a pair of sea lions swimming and playing with absolutely stunning control and flexibility. By the time they get to the big ocean tank, Whiskey feels like he’s learned more about marine creatures in a couple of hours than he thought he might in his entire life.

It’s surprisingly interesting. And listening to Miguel ramble about it, his eyes shining with unfiltered excitement, is unsurprisingly captivating.

They sit down on a bench on the third floor, where they have a good view of the tank just below the surface. There’s not a lot of other guests around, probably because of the feeding that’s happening over at the tank with the baby sharks. Whiskey glances to his side just as a surprisingly huge sea turtle swims by them at a leisurely pace, watches Miguel’s lips soften into a perfectly gentle, content smile.

If Whiskey could have orchestrated every detail of his ideal moment to proceed with the third and final step of his plan, it would’ve looked a lot like this.

He clears his throat lightly.

Miguel looks over towards him, a little expectantly.

Whiskey hesitates.

God, he must do this. He  _ must.  _ Even if this is where he fucks it all up, his future self deserves to remember this as a moment in his life when he faced all of his fears head on in pursuit of real happiness. He needs to let himself try, to allow himself this one moment of mortifying vulnerability.

“Do you-”

“Can I-”

Whiskey falls silent abruptly. Miguel blinks, looking equally startled.

They both smile.

“You, first,” Miguel says gently.

“Okay.” Whiskey takes a steadying breath. “I was hoping we could talk about, um. About this. About us?”

He makes an awkward gesture between them that’s probably not at all necessary for Miguel to understand his meaning.

“Sure,” Miguel agrees. He’s still smiling, albeit not quite as softly as before, and there’s an undertone of apprehension as he continues. “Based on the past few hours, I’m guessing I’m not actually about to have my heart broken, here?”

“No. I hope not.” God, Whiskey wishes that he could dare to get his hopes up at those words. Of course, he can’t. He already knows perfectly well that Miguel isn’t indifferent to him, per say. That’s not what he’s been so afraid of finding out. “Miguel, I like you so much. I like being with you, just like this, so  _ much. _ You’re kind of always on my mind, lately, and it’s all really just so… So great. You’re really, really great.”

“Okay,” Miguel says slowly. His tone is all apprehension, now. “I’m sensing a  _ but,  _ here. You’re not looking to date right now, is that it? Or are you just not looking for a boyfriend at all? Or-”

“No,” Whiskey interrupts hurriedly. “Fuck,  _ no, _ not at all. Miguel, if you wanted to be my boyfriend, I’d be so happy.”

“Oh.” Miguel blinks. “You… Really?”

“Yes.” Whiskey swallows. “I… Yes. Really.”

“Huh.” Slowly, Miguel’s lips curl into another smile. “Wow. That’s... Okay.”

Whiskey allows himself a moment to smile back. God, what he wouldn’t give for things to actually be that simple.

“Okay,” he says, trying to get back on track. “So, the thing is-”

“Ah, I knew it,” Miguel cuts in, almost playfully. “There is a  _ but, _ isn’t there?”

Whiskey grimaces.

“I mean. Sort of?”

“Right.” Miguel’s smile dims again. “Sorry, sorry. I’m listening.”

“It’s not too bad,” Whiskey says, even though it honestly absolutely is. “I, um. You see.”

Miguel watches him expectantly.

“I guess I don’t want to come on too strong, here, and start talking about our lives several years from now,” Whiskey begins, testing the waters a bit. 

Miguel raises his eyebrows slightly, but looks otherwise unruffled. So, like, that’s not a  _ terrible  _ reaction.

Whiskey takes the plunge.

“I just need you to know that I’m not sure if I’ll ever actually come out, publicly. Right now, I honestly don’t think so.”

“Ah,” Miguel says. “You mean… Ah. Okay.”

Whiskey waits. Miguel’s expression is infuriatingly unreadable.

“Good to know,” Miguel finally settles on. “That’s not a deal breaker for me, exactly. I’m just not sure if I’d want to keep something like this from absolutely everyone. I honestly don’t think I could.”

“I couldn’t do that, either,” Whiskey says, surprising himself a little bit. Still, it’s the truth. “I’d want to tell my two best friends.”

“You would?” Miguel asks, almost smiling. “Have I met them?”

“Yes, actually. Tango and Ford.”

“So you’re out, to them?”

“Not yet,” Whiskey admits. “But I’ve been thinking about it, and I… I’d want them to know about us.”

“Okay,” Miguel says. He sounds hopeful. “I’d want my best friend to know, too. I’ve known him all my life, so I trust him completely. And I want to tell my closest family.”

“Okay,” Whiskey agrees. It surprises him a little, that the mere thought doesn’t make him panic. “I don’t mind that.”

“I’ll be very clear that they can’t tell anyone else,” Miguel adds gently. “I’m sure they can handle that.”

“If you trust them, I trust you,” Whiskey reassures him. “Actually, it’s sweet. That you’d want them to know.”

“Of course I would.” Miguel smiles briefly. “Are you, uh. Are you close with your family?”

“Not… Not exactly.” It’s not a question Whiskey was expecting. “They’re very, um. Very traditional. I guess I usually go home for holidays and so on, but we don’t really talk a lot in between. I certainly don’t have plans to come out to them. One of my cousins knows, though. Beth. And actually, she’d kind of murder me if I didn’t tell her about you.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” Miguel tilts his head a little. “Are you out to anyone else?”

“A couple of people,” Whiskey admits. “Dex, our team captain, probably knows the most. He even knows about you. It’s actually his truck that I borrowed, today.”

“Yeah?” Miguel says. He sounds oddly pleased. “That’s cool. Anyone else?”

“This guy that I, um. That I hooked up with a few times last semester.” Whiskey clears his throat awkwardly. “And Bitty, our captain last year, although he found out accidentally. Oh, and you. Although I guess that’s completely obvious.”

“I’d say I’m aware, yeah,” Miguel agrees cheerfully. “You know, I actually ended up googling that former captain guy, Bitty, after the hockey party. His fiance is kind of a really big deal in hockey, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Whiskey agrees. “He’s the first openly gay male NHL hockey player, and a Stanley Cup champion.”

Miguel hums. “There’s really no one else, in the NHL?”

“Not yet, no.” Whiskey takes a breath. “And I’m honestly not too inclined to be the second.”

“Right,” Miguel says. He sounds less startled than Whiskey expected him to. “You know, that thought actually crossed my mind when you first told me about wanting to go pro. Even though you weren’t actually out to me then. I’ve heard some really questionable things about locker rooms in hockey.”

“I’ve heard my fair share of questionable things  _ in _ those locker rooms.” Whiskey sighs. “It’s part of why I have so much respect for Bitty and Zimmermann. They’re really important to a lot of queer hockey people out there, and they’ve done so much to make things better. If Zimmermann wasn’t the only out player in the league, that would really change things for both of them. But I’m, I just… I want to play hockey. There’s nothing else I care about as much. But that doesn’t mean that I could do what they do, or that I’m prepared to go through everything they’ve overcome. Maybe that makes me selfish, but it’s just how I feel.”

Miguel hums.

“I get that,” he says. There’s a weight to his words that feels significant, somehow. “If I’m honest, I don’t know if I could do that, either. It’s actually a relief, in a way, that you’re not asking me if I’d be prepared to face that alongside you.”

Whiskey turns to look at Miguel properly. He wasn’t expecting that.

“I’ve never thought of it that way,” he admits. “I was too busy worrying that you’d be against the idea of not being completely open about… About us.”

Miguel meets his eyes steadily.

“It’s really okay, Whiskey. I don’t need to kiss you for all the world to see, so long as I know where we stand.”

“Yeah?” Whiskey asks. And for the first time since they’ve sat down, he finds himself smiling. “That’s, uh. That’s really great. Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Miguel says gently. “So. I guess this means it’s my turn, now?”

Whiskey blinks. Right. Miguel had been trying to say something, too.

“Sure, yeah,” he agrees. “Go ahead.”

“Don’t worry, okay? It’s genuinely nothing bad.”

“Alright.”

Miguel takes a breath. Apparently, whatever the not-bad thing is, he’s still nervous to say it. Which isn’t at all alarming.

“So, you know how I’ve been hoping to get a room at the water polo frat?” Miguel begins tentatively. “I’ve kind of changed my mind about that, a little bit. I love my team, but I already see them all the time, and the reason I want to move out of the dorms is so that I can have a space that’s more my own. Somehow, I don't think I'd feel that way with all my idiot teammates around.”

“Good instincts,” Whiskey interjects. “I could tell you stories.”

Miguel smiles.

“I’ve actually found a small apartment just off campus that’s surprisingly affordable. I think it might be because the layout of the kitchen area is, like, so impractical that it’s got to be on purpose, but I could definitely make it work.”

“Well. Sounds like a good option.”

“Yeah, I think I’m gonna take it,” Miguel says carefully. “It’s, um. It’s actually no more than a ten minute walk from your hockey house. And it’d be, you know. Something a little more private.”

“Oh,” Whiskey says. He frowns slightly. “You really don’t have to do that, for me.”

“I’m not only doing it for you,” Miguel reminds him firmly. “Like I said, I want something that’s more my own place. This seems like my best option.”

“Well,” Whiskey says, considering. “If you’re sure. It, uh. It does actually sound really nice. I think I might visit you quite a lot.”

“You’d be more than welcome to,” Miguel says. He grins. “Hey. Can I say something?”

Whiskey blinks.

“You just did, I think?”

“Yeah, well.” Miguel grins a little wider. “See, I don’t want to come on too strong, here, and start talking about our lives several years from now. Sounds familiar?”

“... Oh.” Whiskey feels startled in the best way possible. “I guess?”

“It’s just… If I had a wishlist, eventual cohabitation would probably be somewhere near the top.” Miguel tilts his head a little. “Just thought I’d put that out there.”

“Yeah?” Whiskey manages, a bit unsteadily. “I, uh. I’d definitely be open to having that conversation. At some point.”

“Okay. Cool.” Miguel averts his gaze for a second, looking back at the ocean tank before them. His smile, Whiskey thinks, is perfectly lovely. “So. Do you... Should we head back?”

Whiskey frowns. He’s more than aware of the fact that there’s several exhibits they haven’t even gone anywhere near, yet. Miguel must know that, too.

“Isn’t there stuff left to see?” he wonders, a little unsurely.

“We can come back,” Miguel says quickly. He turns back towards Whiskey, and there’s a look in his eyes that immediately earns him Whiskey’s full attention. “Right now, I’d rather just be somewhere a bit more... Somewhere we can be alone. And my roommate’s actually gone for the weekend, so. I was thinking…”

Oh.

Whiskey gets to his feet.

They don’t waste any time making their way back to the truck. Whiskey starts the ignition, his mind occupied with calculating how long the drive might take. As he puts the truck in reverse and starts backing up, Miguel makes some sort of noise next to him.

Whiskey glances over, surprised to find that Miguel’s expression is… Tense. Or something.

“Never mind me,” Miguel mutters through his teeth. “Just, um. Just drive.”

It reminds Whiskey of what Miguel had said to him that same morning, after he’d gone oddly quiet and… Stared at Whiskey’s hand on the gearshift. Huh.

Whiskey pauses after backing up. He raises both eyebrows in question.

“Oh, fuck you,” Miguel says, his weak tone a definite contrast to his choice of words. “Look, it’s really stupid. You’re gonna think I’m an idiot.”

“I mean, maybe,” Whiskey allows. He still doesn’t keep driving. “Does it help if I promise not to take the piss?”

“Persistent, aren’t we?” Miguel mutters. He sighs. “Ugh.  _ Fine. _ It’s just… You drive stick.”

Whiskey blinks.

“Is that, like… A whole _ thing _ for you?”

“Oh, shut it,” Miguel grumbles. “This is hardly my fault, okay, I really can’t be blamed for being stupidly attracted to you.”

Whiskey probably shouldn’t smile as widely as he does – he literally just promised Miguel that he wouldn’t make fun of him. “Stupidly, huh.”

“Well, yes!” Miguel exclaims. And suddenly, it’s like a pair of proverbial floodgates have opened. "Did you know that every time you open your ridiculously hot mouth in class and something highly intelligent spills out, I die a little bit?”

Whiskey blinks. Fuck. If there’s one thing in this world that he didn’t know, it’s definitely that.

Miguel continues before he has the chance to respond.

“And God, you couldn’t warn a guy before making me watch you dominate that hockey game like you single-handedly invented skating? Believe me, I am sincerely,  _ stupidly _ into you – you with your ridiculous face, and that brain, and those  _ muscles, _ Jesus. You are quite literally the whole package and it's honestly so completely infuriating.”

Whiskey swallows. He can’t seem to look away from Miguel, who is actually glaring at him, now, and that shouldn’t be the best thing that’s happened to Whiskey all day. And it kind of isn’t better than their pivotal conversation earlier, if Whiskey thinks about it logically and rationally, which he would absolutely do if Miguel wasn’t looking at him like  _ that. _

“Right,” Whiskey finally manages in response. “Gotcha.”

Miguel narrows his eyes.

“Listen,” he says. His voice is low, and raw, and determined. Whiskey’s breath hitches. “You’re going to drive us back to campus, and I’m going to take you up to my room, and, if you'll let me, I’m going to spread you out on my bed and make you feel every deliciously bittersweet moment of frustration that I've suffered on your account. God knows you've deserved it."

“Um.” Whiskey swallows, twice, and then attempts a deep breath. His brain might have short-circuited a little bit. “Is this a good time to mention that you talking like that is kind of really doing it for me?”

“No,” Miguel says evenly, despite the fact that Whiskey can see the clearly pleased smile tugging at his lips. “Just, for God’s sake, Whiskey. Drive.  _ Now.” _

Whiskey forces himself to look back ahead. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Miguel follow the movements of his hand as he carefully changes gears.

Boston, Whiskey thinks dizzily, is entirely too far away from Samwell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys. these two. I'm getting a lil' emotional.
> 
> so here's a fun fact: I've finally sat myself down and put together a proper outline for this, because that's definitely something you do when you're already _15 chapters in,_ and right now I'm aiming to finish this by chapter 24. ish. so, still a ways to go!


	16. choices

When Dex steps into Chowder’s bedroom, his single knock on the open door no more than a nostalgic habit, these days, as opposed to a present requirement, he’s certainly not expecting to be faced with, well. With  _ this. _

“What’re you doing?”

Chowder looks up. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor with a myriad of different colored post-it notes spread out around him. Dex crouches down, picking up a couple of the notes (yellow and pink, respectively) to skim through their contents.  _ Louis, helped solve Halloween cupcake disaster, 2 points. Hops, volunteered to do dishes entire week, 6 points. _

Dex raises both eyebrows towards Chowder. Chowder, meanwhile, is staring down at the colorful mess surrounding him with a decidedly troubled expression. He sighs.

“I’m figuring out my dibs.”

“With a points system?” Dex prompts. He’s not sure if he’s impressed or concerned. “Looks ambitious.”

“I just don’t want anyone to think that I’m being unfair,” Chowder explains glumly. He picks up a green post-it _ (Jader, gave up half his vanilla scone at breakfast, 1 point)  _ and stares at it dejectedly. “Or that I don’t care about them. Oh  _ no, _ what if I pick Jader, and then Joyo inevitably assumes that I hate him? I could never do that to Joyo."

“Dude,” Dex says. He’s trying very hard not to smile. “You don’t have to make a decision yet, you know? It’s not even Christmas.”

Chowder frowns.

“It's  _ almost  _ Christmas.”

“I suppose,” Dex agrees carefully. “Are you sure this isn’t just some big procrastination project? Got any big finals looming, hm?”

“Finals,” Chowder scoffs. “Are  _ finals _ really more important than the precious feelings of our hardworking underclassmen?”

“Oh my God. What’s all this?”

Nursey strolls into the room without knocking. He places a kiss on top of Dex’s head and then plops himself down between Dex and Chowder, his hand lingering softly at Dex’s nape.

“Chowder is having a bit of a dibs crisis,” Dex fills him in.

“Oh, man. Hard same.” Nursey frowns. “I was dead set on giving mine to Ford. Of course Ollie and Wicks had to go and snag her, first.”

“She and Tango seem pretty happy up in the attic, though,” Dex points out. "And this way, you get to be hausmates with both of them this year."

“I suppose that's true," Nursey allows. Then he shrugs. "And I guess I’ve still got Louis. He’s let me borrow his good bluetooth speakers basically this whole semester, so. Might be an option."

“What?” Chowder exclaims. “No, wait, I might pick Louis. You two couldn't maybe give me some time to figure this out, before you stake your claims?"

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works, C,” Dex tells him gently.

“That’s definitely not how it works,” Nursey agrees, his grin playful yet his tone kind. “If there’s someone you have in mind, Chow, you should just go for it. You snooze, you lose."

Chowder whips his head around, aiming his wide, pleading eyes at Dex.

“You’re not considering Louis, too, are you?”

“Honestly? I wish I was considering anyone.” Dex sighs. “I would’ve gone with Whiskey, but obviously that’s out, and I feel like the Waffles have gotten this strange aversion to doing any of those dibs type favors for me since I became captain. I think they don’t want to act like they’re sucking up for the wrong reasons, or something.”

“Maybe give them some proper incentive?” Nursey suggests merrily. “If word got out that you’re, like, completely undecided about dibs, I’m sure both the Waffles and the Scones would be falling all over themselves to please you. Might be fun to watch.”

“Nah. I’ll figure it out eventually.” Dex shrugs. “Graduation is still really far away. I’m not gonna worry about it, yet.”

“It’s not  _ that  _ far away,” Chowder disagrees. He sounds serious. “Guys, it’s almost Christmas. That means we're graduating in less than six months.”

Dex very nearly flinches. Six months? How is that even possible?

“That can’t be right,” Nursey says slowly. His expression has turned uncharacteristically unchill. “Fuck. Why haven’t I applied to more grad programs, yet?”

“I need to start looking at job listings more seriously,” Chowder chimes in. He's looking down at his post-its with an expression that’s unusually difficult to read. “I guess I can't put it off forever."

“Hey,” Dex says. He’s trying his best to sound reasonable, despite his own inner turmoil. Suddenly, the feeling of Nursey’s hand that’s still resting at his nape seems more important than ever. “It’s not over yet. We’ve still got a whole semester.”

“Yeah,” Nursey says quickly. “Yeah, you’re right. And even after, it’s not like you guys are ever gonna be rid of me. Got your backs, remember?”

“That's true,” Chowder agrees quietly. He’s not smiling, Dex notes with no small amount of concern. Especially considering the fact that Chowder kind of hasn't smiled at all since the start of this conversation. His whole expression looks wrong, somehow, without that familiar spark of effortless joy. “It’s all happening so fast. I wish everything could slow down, just a bit.”

“We’re just gonna have to make every moment count,” Dex says firmly. Impulsively, he reaches for Chowder’s shoulder. “We’re here for you, man. You know that, right? We're always gonna look out for each other. Always."

“Of course. Yeah, of course.” Thankfully, that seems to do the trick – Chowders lips curl into a soft grin. "Ugh. I think I'm just gonna go through my notes for that UX design final one more time. Can't be more stressful than trying to choose a single Waffle for dibs."

"Or a Scone," Nursey reminds him brightly. "There's some good freshies, too, let's not forget."

"Says you, who's got your eye on Louis, too," Chowder points out with an amused roll of his eyes. "I may be panicking, Nurse, but I'm certainly not stupid."

"Ah, and here though myself completely subtle." Nursey grins. "Weren't you gonna study?"

"Actually, yes." Chowder gets to his feet, only to immediately pause. He narrows his eyes towards Nursey. "But if you lock down Louis while I'm stuck cramming user interface design techniques, you can expect some serious payback."

"Chill, man." Nursey's grin softens. "Look, I haven't actually decided on Louis yet, but if it would make you feel better we could have some sort of dibs treaty until the end of finals week. After that, it's anyone's game. Sounds good?"

"I suppose that’s fair." Chowder nods, and Dex is relieved to see the genuine smile he offers in return. "I think I left my books downstairs, so. See you guys later."

He pads out of his room, leaving Dex and Nursey alone in the sea of post-its.

Immediately, Nursey scoots a little closer to Dex.

"Just us, huh," he remarks, his tone a clear attempt at casual even though his smile indicates otherwise. "D'you wanna get lunch, or something?"

Dex hesitates.

"I've actually got some things I need to work on," he says carefully. "Could we maybe meet up later?"

"Sure. Of course." Nursey's response comes just a little bit too quickly. "That's chill, man. Whatever you need."

Dex studies his boyfriend's expression for a moment. It's been a concern of his, ever since he started setting aside time to work on his secret project, that Nursey might eventually start to realise there's something Dex isn't telling him. Dex has been monitoring carefully for any sign of doubt or confusion on Nursey's end, and this is the first time he thinks he's seeing exactly that in the subtle frown that's replaced Nursey's relaxed smile from a moment earlier. Obviously, it's the opposite of what Dex hopes to achieve with his secrecy.

Thankfully, the solution is very simple.

"Hey," Dex says quietly. "It's for you."

Nursey looks puzzled.

"I'm doing something for you," Dex clarifies. "That's why I've been a little busy, lately. It's going to be a surprise."

"Oh," Nursey says. He sounds surprised, already. "You're… Huh. What is it?"

Dex grins softly.

"A surprise. Duh."

Nursey raises a curious eyebrow.

"Don't I get a hint?"

"You really don't understand the concept of a surprise, do you?"

"Fine. Be that way." Nursey smiles a little excitedly, and Dex relaxes a bit. "I suppose I'll see you at dinner, then? The guys all want to go to Jerrys.”

"Actually, can we do dinner just you and me?" Dex asks quickly. "There's been so much team stuff, lately, and I've honestly kind of missed us. Tonight, I want to just... Order in. Preferably from someplace that makes a mean garlic bread. And after, we should put on Netflix and get in bed so I can cuddle you while you rant about the dubious plot changes in another one of those Austen adaptations."

Nursey blinks. For some reason, he's staring at Dex with a serious look in his eyes, one that's only vaguely familiar.

"What?" Dex asks, a little self-consciously. Was it something he said? “You like those period dramas. Don’t you?”

Nursey drops his gaze. He takes Dex's hands in his and holds them gently, almost like they're something delicate, like Dex is someone precious and worthy of protection.

"You're in love with me," he says quietly. "Aren't you?"

Oh,  _ shit. _

It's true, is the thing. And honestly, Nursey can’t have been unaware of it up until this moment. Really, he  _ must  _ have known. Dex might never have said it in so many words, and they’ve technically only dated for a few months, but it’s not like either of them are blind to the fact that they were dancing around this thing between them for several years, before. That goodnight kiss out on the porch at the very first kegster of the fall was never the beginning.

Dex briefly considers making some sort of joke to downplay this moment, if only to stop Nursey from being completely obnoxious about it in a minute or so. Except, the heavy look in Nursey’s eyes compels him to make a different choice.

"Yeah," Dex says, almost steadily. "I am in love with you. Quite hopelessly, actually."

Nursey’s breath hitches. He squeezes Dex hands tightly, and then he’s leaning over, capturing Dex’s lips in a fiercely desperate kiss that leaves Dex completely breathless. And if Dex didn’t feel it so completely, just then, in every achingly delicate touch of Nursey’s fingers against his cheek, his throat, all the way down his chest, he might’ve been a bit anxious about the fact that, technically, Nursey didn’t actually say it back.

As it is, Dex isn’t worried. If anything, he’s amused.

“You’re welcome,” he chirps gently after they break apart. “I guess I should be thankful you didn’t just tell me to chill, or whatever.”

“Fuck you, man,” Nursey breathes out, his voice breaking in a way Dex didn’t expect at all. “Also, just, shut  _ up, _ okay? You already know that I’m writing literal fucking poetry about you, about your freckles and your eyes and your hips and your smile and your stupid fucking  _ lips, _ okay. I’d like to think you’ve been able to safely assume that I’m more than casually into you.”

“I’d like to think that’s the impression I’ve given you, too,” Dex says slowly. He feels a little confused. Suddenly, he’s tempted to drag Nursey across campus to the wood workshop and just  _ show _ him, right now, to expose everything that he’s dreaming and hoping and wishing. “Nursey. Hey, Nurse. Look at me.”

“No, you’re right.” Nursey takes a breath. He meets Dex’s eyes with a watery smile. “I don’t know, man. It just hits differently, when you say it out loud. Feels more real. It’s like you spoke it into existence.”

“Maybe something for your next poem,” Dex teases gently. This moment feels too fragile, somehow. He racks his brain for some way to break the tension. “Did you ever read me the one about my hips?”

“Um.” Quickly, Nursey looks away, his smile suddenly more of a bashful grin. Bingo. “Did I mention that one, just now?”

“You did.” Dex grins, too, taking in Nursey’s clearly flustered expression with interest. Oh, this is gonna be  _ good.  _ “Tonight, okay? Read it to me, tonight.”

“I don’t… It’s not my most coherent work, probably.” Nursey clears his throat, and Dex grins a little wider. It’s not often that he manages to make Nursey this unsettled. “I mean, I’ll see if I can find it.”

“Suppose I’ll just have to inspire a new one, if you don’t,” Dex suggests slyly.

“Actually,” Nursey breathes out, already moving to climb into Dex’s lap. “That sounds-”

“Oh my God!” Chowder exclaims from the still open door. “We’ve been over this! You  _ both  _ have your own rooms, okay, you’ve literally got zero excuses for getting your freak on right in the middle of-”

Dex presses his lips briefly against Nursey’s before scrambling to his feet, quickly slipping past Chow into the hallway.

“Sorry, Chowder!” he calls out over his shoulder as he takes the stairs two steps at a time. “Love you, Nurse! Bye!”

“That’s a fine, isn’t it?” Pips calls from the living room as Dex practically sprints past. “Hey, wait! Major fine! Pay the fuck up!”

Dex let’s the door to the Haus fall shut behind him. As he makes the now familiar trek across campus, he doesn’t stop smiling for a single moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just _love_ Chowder. Don't you just love Chowder? He might actually be my favorite.
> 
> Next up: an important conversation in the attic!


	17. trust

Whiskey sidesteps first Nursey and then Chowder on his way up the stairs. It’s not without difficulty, given that both boys are carrying what must be all of their Christmas luggage including presents, but somehow he makes it past each of them without incident. He half-jogs up the last flight of stairs, stepping into the attic.

It’s… A mess. A _complete_ mess.

“I thought you two had already packed,” Whiskey points out.

“I mean, sort of.” Ford looks up briefly from the suitcase she's trying to wrangle into obedience. It looks like there’s about twice as much stuff in there compared to what’s probably advisable. “I just keep remembering things I’ve forgotten.”

“And I couldn’t actually pack any clothes until I had the chance to do laundry, this morning.” Tango strolls out of their large wardrobe turned walk-in closet, and actually, given Whiskey’s reason for venturing up here this afternoon, that’s _hilarious._ Maybe, if he was feeling a bit less like he’s about to either throw up or chicken out, he might’ve just casually hopped into that closet and then burst out, repeatedly, until they eventually caught on.

“How are you holding up?” Ford asks him. She’s paused her attempts to close her suitcase and is watching him with a slight frown. “D'you need any help, packing?”

“I’m not going home until Wednesday,” Whiskey reminds her. He takes a breath. “Actually… Can I talk to you two for a minute?”

“Oh.” Ford sits up a little straighter. “Sure, Whiskey. Of course.”

Whiskey nods, once. Then he turns around, and carefully closes the door behind him.

When he faces them again, Ford and Tango are exchanging a serious look.

“So,” Whiskey says. He’s trying to keep his tone light. “Thing is, um. I’ve had some stuff going on that I wanted to let you know about. It’s kind of really important, actually.”

He pauses, unsure of how to continue, and watches Ford and Tango exchange another completely unsubtle glance.

“It’s alright, Whiskey,” Ford says gently as she looks back towards him. “Whatever it is, I’m sure we can help you figure it out.”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Tango chimes in. “We’re here for you, man. Got your back, remember?”

Whiskey blinks. He feels quite startled. This isn’t how he’s imagined this conversation at all.

“You’ve been worried about me,” he realises out loud. “Haven’t you?”

There’s another not-so-furtive glance exchanged, and _oh._ Whiskey wonders how he hasn’t realised before. He's been aware that his two best friends have been sort of watching him, from time to time, and perhaps more than usually during the last month or so. It just hasn’t occurred to him that it could've been out of concern, rather than suspicion.

“You’ve been a little distant, is all,” Ford explains presently. She actually sounds nervous, which is perhaps the most startling thing of all. It’s Whiskey who is about to put everything in jeopardy, here. “We haven’t wanted to ask, in case… I mean, we figured you’d tell us when you were ready.”

“We didn’t want to impose,” Tango fills in. “Or, y'know, ask too many questions.”

 _“You_ didn’t want to ask questions,” Whiskey chirps, actually smiling for a moment. “Seriously?”

“Didn’t _want to_ is perhaps pushing it a bit.” Tango smiles, too. “Anyway. I didn’t mean to interrupt your big speech about all your troubles. Go on."

“I’m not… In trouble.” Whiskey takes a steadying breath. “Everything is great. Actually, everything is _really_ great.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good.” Ford smiles encouragingly. “Really great in some specific way, or…?”

“Pretty specific.” Whiskey gives himself another moment to try and remember how he’s imagined he’d tell them, which words and phrases he's deemed acceptable. “I’m, uh. I’m actually seeing someone.”

Judging by the way both Ford and Tango stare at him, they definitely weren’t expecting that.

“Oh, Whiskey, that’s _wonderful,”_ Ford says brightly. She sounds relieved. “Oh my God. And here I thought it’d be something really dreadful.”

“You’ll have to bring them around for dinner, sometime,” Tango jokes, and Whiskey’s heartbeat quickens more than a little bit at the gender-neutral language. Does Tango know? Did he always suspect? Or did he simply actually learn something in that orientation seminar on gender and sexuality, where they talked about avoiding unnecessary assumptions of pronouns? “And by dinner, I obviously mean the next kegster.”

“I actually already did.” Whiskey swallows. It's probably now or never, isn't it? “Do you guys remember Miguel? It’s him. I'm dating him.”

It’s comical, almost, for how long the ensuing silence stretches on. Or at least it would be, if Whiskey wasn’t so completely on edge.

"Oh," Ford says. Her smile has turned very soft. "That's so great, Whiskey. I'm so happy for you."

"Yeah, that's ‘swasome." Tango is smiling, too. "It's really cool that you wanted us to know. Thanks for trusting us with this."

Slowly, Whiskey lets out a breath he didn't quite know he was holding.

"It's really great, actually," he admits. It's easier to smile back now that the hard part is over. Maybe actually easier than it's been in a really long time. "We're not going to tell a lot of people, just so you know. I'm not going to tell the team."

"Alright." Ford's eyebrows furrow slightly. "They wouldn't think any differently of you, if you did. You know that, right?"

"No, of course." Whiskey runs a hand through his hair. "It's not that. It’s because I don't actually plan on being publicly out, even long-term. That would be… Difficult.”

“Is it… Do you think your family would have problems with you being... Um.” Tango pauses for a moment, before he manages to find a way around the label that Whiskey has been so careful not to provide, just yet. “Being with a guy?”

“Probably,” Whiskey admits. And then – because it’s just Tango and Ford, behind a closed door, in the Haus, up in the attic, where it’s _safe_ – he actually continues. “I haven’t really figured out how I identify, exactly. I guess I don’t _not_ like girls, but I’m almost certainly more into guys. I think. Anyway, the exact terminology isn’t anywhere near the top of my list right now.”

“Ah, but there _is_ a list,” Ford says, and for some reason that makes her grin. “Do we get deets about the list? Are there dozens of dirty deeds that have or have not been checked off?”

“Oh, _yes,_ let’s hear it,” Tango agrees, his tone annoyingly delighted. “What _is_ at the top of said list, dearest Whiskey? Are you and the lovely Miguel being safe? I can hook you up with several highly relevant pamphlets from planned parenthood, if need be.”

“I hate you both,” Whiskey says sincerely. His helpless smile kind of gives him away, though. This slight but significant subject change should probably be making him exceedingly uncomfortable, but it’s actually weirdly and unexpectedly validating. Maybe it’s because he’s watched so many of his teammates being teased under similar circumstances in this strange rite of passage Whiskey didn’t think he’d ever get to pass through himself. Apparently, he was wrong. “Keep your brochures, T. We’re fine.”

“A lot of checkmarks on the list, then?” Ford chirps pleasantly.

“The list was an analogy, Denice. As you very well know.”

“Oh, man,” Tango says. For some reason, he sounds downright ecstatic. “Did you know that you can’t spell analogy without-”

“Okay, yeah, great talk.” Whiskey has already turned around and gotten the door open. It’s a rather poor attempt at hiding his stupidly wide grin, but hey, A for effort. “Have a great Christmas, you guys.”

“Merry Christmas, Whiskey!” Ford calls cheerfully as Whiskey bolts back down the stairs. “Love you! See you next semester!”

“And don’t forget, you’ve gotta be making that list and checking it twice!” Tango chimes in melodiously, and oh _God,_ Whiskey can’t get back into his own room soon enough.

Miguel, who’s perched up on Whiskey’s bed, sits up a little straighter when Whiskey zips into the room at top speed.

“Did it go… Okay?” Miguel looks a bit perplexed. “You ran all the way down here… But you’re smiling.”

“It went great.” Whiskey carefully shuts the door behind him and locks it, before he makes his way over. Miguel takes him by the hand and leans up to press a soft kiss on his cheek, and it’s perfect. It’s fucking everything. “Unfortunately, we can’t ever hang out with them again because they’re both complete dorks who will forever embarrass me in front of you. But yeah, other than that, it went great.”

“Good.” Miguel smiles brightly. “I kind of look forward to seeing you constantly flustered. It sounds cute.”

“You’re cute,” Whiskey counters, and God, it’s not even a proper chirp, it’s a literal fucking _compliment._ He’s got it so bad. “Oh – if either of them ever bring up a list, don’t indulge them. There’s no list.”

“A list of… What?”

“There’s no list,” Whiskey repeats firmly. Somehow, in the back of his mind, he already knows he’s never gonna live this down. “Just ignore them. They’re both idiots.”

Miguel cocks his head to the side. He grins.

“You know I’m gonna get it out of you eventually, right?”

“Probably, yeah.” Whiskey smiles. Somehow, he thinks that he might actually not mind that very much, in the end. “So. You have practice, right?”

“Nope. Not for another hour or so.” Miguel shifts a little on the bed to lay back on the pillows, and looks up at Whiskey from behind those absolutely perfect eyelashes. Fuck. “Did you lock the door?”

“Yeah,” Whiskey breathes out. He allows himself a moment to just look, to let his eyes roam over Miguel’s form spread out so invitingly across his bed, and okay, perhaps there _is_ something of a list, or at least a constantly expanding collection of wants and needs. It’s a little dizzying when Whiskey tries to consider them all at once, but he’s more than happy to focus on just one. “Can we, um. What we did last night. Except, I was actually thinking... The other way around?”

Miguel licks his lips. He grins widely.

“Sounds gay. I’m in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> such growth!! such friendship!!! gosh, this is _so_ fun to write.
> 
> I'm seriously considering updating the summary of this, at some point, since this story has taken shape in many ways I didn't necessarily expect it to from the beginning. it's got so many directions, though, and while I _think_ that mostly makes sense while you're reading it, it's not the easiest thing to digest into a summary. if anyone has any ideas or thoughts on this subject, feel more than free to let me know! I'm on [tumblr](https://everwitch-magiks.tumblr.com/). come say hi. ♡


	18. opportunity

It’s a quiet evening in January, when everything changes.

Whiskey has just come back from his run and is met by a familiar yet unusual smell as he steps inside the Haus. It’s cumin and garlic, pork and definitely chili… Whiskey frowns. It can’t be. Really, it  _ can’t. _ He makes his way into the kitchen, almost hesitantly.

Except, it is.

Miguel is at the kitchen table, speaking with a patient tone as he guides an unusually focused Hops through the steps of properly folding tamales. It was only last week that Whiskey learned the method and terminology, himself, when Miguel had shown him the process in the cramped kitchen of his new apartment. There’s two pots on the stove, and something's already in the oven – garlic bread, if Whiskey isn't entirely mistaken. Huh.

Both Hops and Miguel look up when Whiskey enters.

“Hey, there." Miguel smiles. He makes a small, somewhat helpless gesture around the room in general, as if to say  _ I wasn't expecting this, either _ or perhaps even  _ this isn't actually my fault. _ “Dinner’s on the way.”

“Whiskey!” Hops exclaims giddily. “I’m cooking!”

“I can see that,” Whiskey says carefully.

He’s more than a little bit surprised. Miguel comes and goes almost as frequently as some of the members of the team, these days, so it’s not completely unheard of that he’d be at the Haus before Whiskey. Still, Whiskey didn’t expect Miguel to have made himself  _ quite  _ this comfortable in the Haus kitchen. Especially since they’ve been making such an effort to keep things very low-key.

“Oh, Whisk, have you met Miguel?” Hops suddenly asks, completely sincere. “He’s Tango’s friend. And a kitchen genius, obviously.”

“Oh my God,” Miguel says, very quietly.

Whiskey wants to laugh. He wants to laugh so _ badly.  _ He forgets, sometimes, how the world can be so stubbornly determined to see nothing but heterosexuality all around.

“No, we’ve met,” Whiskey finally says, probably more than five seconds too late, but at least he keeps most of his composure. “Actually, we had a class together last semester.”

"Oh, that's 'swasome." Hops grins, blissfully oblivious. "Me and Tango have decided Miguel can use the Haus kitchen anytime, so you might be seeing a lot more of each other."

"I suppose that's fine," Whiskey says dryly. Miguel stifles a laugh. "Do you guys need any help?"

“I think we’re fine,” Miguel says brightly. “Actually, Whiskey, isn’t that your phone on the table? It’s been buzzing non-stop for a while, now.”

Miguel is right – it is his phone. Whiskey picks it up. He’s got seven missed calls, all from an unknown number. Huh. Just as he pulls up his browser to google it, his phone starts ringing again.

“I’d better take this.” Whiskey is already leaving the kitchen. “Save me some garlic bread, okay?”

“You got it!”

He’s making his way up the stairs as he takes the call.

“It’s Connor.”

“Oh,  _ there  _ you are.” The pleasant voice on the other end of the line is only vaguely familiar. “Connor, this is Emily Larsen. We met briefly a couple of months ago at one of your home games. Is this a good time? I’ve actually got a few different things to cover.”

Emily Larsen… Right.  _ That  _ Emily Larsen. The Houston Aeros.

Wait.  _ Seven  _ missed calls?

“It’s nice to hear from you,” Whiskey says carefully. He enters his bedroom and closes the door firmly. “Now is fine. I’ve got time.”

“Good, good.” Emily pauses for a moment. “This is kind of going to be a lot, okay? Just let me talk for a bit, first. I promise I’ll try to answer all of your questions later.”

She doesn’t give him the chance to respond before she launches right into it.

It  _ is  _ a lot, Whiskey thinks dizzily, and paying proper attention soon turns out to be something of a challenge. Mostly because every impossible thing Emily tells him seems more impossible than the one before.  _ Several ill-timed injuries, which means we have an unexpected opening, _ Emily says, and Whiskey’s heartbeat quickens.  _ A make or break situation where we need to act fast, _ Emily says, and Whiskey finds that he needs to sit down.  _ We'd like to get you down in time for tomorrow’s practice, _ Emily says, and Whiskey has to remind himself to breathe.

“Tomorrow,” he manages to cut in, the single word costing him an unbelievable effort. “That’s… That’s really soon.”

“We have our next game on Tuesday, next week,” Emily explains efficiently. “We would need to have you on the ice with our guys as much as possible, before then.”

“Okay,” Whiskey says faintly. “I, uh. I have a pop quiz tomorrow.”

It’s probably a pretty fucking stupid thing to say, but Whiskey can’t actually bring himself to care very much right now. His mind is still spinning rapidly.

“Look,” Emily says. Her voice has softened, just slightly. “If you’re going to sign with us, you won’t be having a lot of pop quizzes in the near future. You’re going to need to drop out.”

“Right,” Whiskey says. He forces himself to take a steadying breath. “No, I get that. It’s just all very sudden. Is there any chance I could have some time to consider?”

Emily is quiet for a brief moment.

“This is a really big opportunity, Connor,” she says firmly. “We need someone to come down as soon as possible – yesterday, preferably. I can’t hold this door open for very long.”

“I understand that,” Whiskey tells her. And really, he does. It’s just… Whiskey gives himself a second, let’s himself just look around his room for a moment. His eyes linger at the Samwell banner he’s got pinned to the wall and the framed picture of the team that sits on his desk. Somehow, it all calms him down enough to help him hold his ground. “But I’m still going to need more than a couple of hours to make a decision like this. If you can’t accommodate that, then I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to accept.”

There’s another period of silence from Emily, except this time it’s not  _ quite  _ silent. A faint noise can be heard at the other end of the line, almost as if Emily has covered her phone with her hand and is exchanging a few words with someone else.

“Alright,” Emily says, more than a few moments later. “How about this. We fly you down tomorrow, you join us for practice for the rest of the week, but you don’t actually decide whether to sign with us or not until Sunday. We can get you back to Samwell over the weekend so you can take care of any unfinished business, but by Monday you’ll relocate permanently. First game on Tuesday.”

Whiskey bites his lower lip. It’s still impossibly fast, but at least it’s slightly better. And Emily is right – this is a  _ really  _ big opportunity. In many ways, it’s actually exactly what Whiskey has been hoping for all this time.

“Yeah,” Whiskey hears himself say. “That works.”

They wrap up the call soon after. Emily says she’ll send him his flight details, plus a check-list of things to pack. Whiskey remembers to thank her for her time, and for the opportunity. When they hang up, he’s almost convinced himself that he’s not freaking out about this.

As soon as Miguel steps into his room, that illusion shatters.

“I swear,” Miguel says cheerfully, “I give Tango  _ one  _ helping of leftover tamales, and suddenly the whole Haus wants in. Can you even believe…”

He quiets. Evidently, he’s registered the look on Whiskey’s face.

“Hey,” Miguel continues softly. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s... I’ve just, uh.”

Whiskey tries to breathe. God. He thought it wouldn't be like this, at least not yet. He thought he still had  _ time. _

Apparently, he was so wrong.

It is what it is, though. And it's not like they didn’t both know this was going to happen eventually. It's just sooner, rather than later. And it's a  _ good _ thing. It should be exactly what Whiskey wants.

Whiskey finally manages to take a breath. It almost feels better. And anyway, he literally doesn't have time for even a minor breakdown, right now.

He needs to get a fucking grip.

“I’m leaving for Houston, in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go, y'all. here we _go._ buckle up, etc. the next chapter will be up sometime during the next week!


	19. whirlwind

Dex drives him to the airport.

Even though it's still too fucking early o'clock, Whiskey feels wide awake. He didn’t think he would – it’s not exactly like he got an abundance of sleep, last night. He’s supposed to be joining the Aeros for their practice, right after lunch, and unfortunately, he highly doubts this nervous energy is going to last him until then.

Whiskey closes his eyes, breathes in and out. It’s fine. It  _ will  _ be fine. Somehow.

"Hey," Dex says carefully.

"I'm okay." Whiskey forces his eyes back open. "Thank you for doing this. I’m so sorry it had to be this fucking early."

"No problem," Dex tells him firmly. "Just remember – if you need to get out of there, for  _ any  _ reason, don’t hesitate to call. Alright? I promise I’ll drive right down and rescue you.”

Somehow, that actually makes Whiskey smile.

"Sure. It's literally on the other side of the country, but sure."

"Just a few hours behind the wheel," Dex replies decisively, almost like it could truly be that simple. Like he actually means it. "Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask. Have you talked to Jack, yet?"

Wait. What?

"Zimmermann?" Whiskey asks doubtfully, and watches in disbelief as Dex nods. "Why would I… Dex, I don't actually  _ know _ Jack Zimmermann. I've spoken to him once, maybe twice in my life."

“He’s Samwell Men’s Hockey alumni, isn’t he?” Dex points out. “And obviously, he knows more about these things than any of us. He could definitely help you get some perspective.”

“Maybe, but I can’t just… It’s not like I’ve even got his number.”

“Do you mind if I talk to him, then?” Dex suggests. “I’m sure he’d have your back, Whiskey. And if there’s ever a time when you should rely on all of your support systems, I think it’s probably now.”

“I suppose it can’t hurt,” Whiskey agrees, somewhat tersely. It goes without saying that talking to Jack equals getting Bitty in the loop, and Whiskey’s not sure if he’s completely ready for that, just yet. “You know, it’s really okay if… I mean, Jack Zimmermann is probably very busy.”

“Just leave it to me.” If Dex picks up on Whiskey’s discomfort on the subject, he doesn’t show it. “We should probably also consider how much I should tell the team, while you’re away? They’re bound to have some questions.”

Whiskey closes his eyes again, just briefly. Fuck. The team. Tango and Ford. Louis, Hops and Bully. Chowder and Nursey. Joyo and Jader. Pips. God fucking  _ damnit. _

“Tango and Ford already know,” Whiskey says, as evenly as he can manage. “As for the rest, could you just… Try to say as little as possible? At least for now.”

Dex takes a moment before he replies.

“They’re all going to be happy for you,” he says carefully. “You know that, right? Sad, too, and in some cases pretty fucking devastated. But happy, ultimately.”

“Maybe, yeah.” Whiskey attempts a casual shrug that he knows Dex will see right through. “I just think, if I’m really doing this, then I’m going to need to tell them all myself. So for now, just say that something came up and that I will be back on Saturday.”

“Alright,” Dex agrees. His tone is a lot gentler than before. “Sounds good.”

Whiskey nods, once.

They don’t talk much more for the rest of the drive.

Emily has booked Whiskey a first-class ticket, and that should be exciting or at least somewhat distracting, but it’s not. Whiskey barely takes in his surroundings as he moves through priority boarding and fully reclines in his very spacious seat. He manages to sleep a little on the plane, so at least that’s something.

A bored-looking driver collects Whiskey from the airport, and then they’re off straight towards the rink. Whiskey grits his teeth as he steps out of the car. This is it. This is actually fucking  _ it. _

Someone is waiting for him by the entrance. It’s one of the players Whiskey certainly knew by name even before he obsessively googled the Aeros’s current roster, the night before. Walt ‘Mickey’ Davis, team captain of the Aeros and one of the highest ranked defensemen in professional hockey.

Whiskey takes a breath. No big deal. Absolutely no big deal at all.

“I hear you’ve had a bit of a whirlwind, these past twelve hours,” Walt greets him. His handshake is firm, and Whiskey immediately likes the steady way he meets Whiskey’s eyes. If Walt Davis is at all concerned with the fact that two of his best forwards are out due to a broken collarbone and a torn meniscus, respectively, he certainly doesn’t show it. “It’s Connor Whisk, right? Let’s see what we can do with that. I go by Mickey.”

“I know,” Whiskey says, only to immediately feel stupid. Which, in itself, is  _ stupid  _ – the only reason he’s here is because he’s been explicitly asked to come, so if he somehow makes an utter fool of himself it’s actually kind of on them. Besides, all of this is just more hockey, isn’t it? Whiskey  _ knows  _ hockey. How fucking hard can it be? “It’s very nice to meet you. I’m really looking forward to getting on the ice with you guys.”

“Polite, eh?” Mickey smiles. “Come on. Let’s get you settled in as best as we can, before practice. I have to warn you, though – Ducky has this  _ slight  _ obsession with the Samwell NCAA team. He might have one or two questions. Just let me know if you ever need him to back off.”

Whiskey blinks. Right. What’s one more utterly baffling thing to navigate.

Ducky, it turns out, has a lot more than two questions. He instantly reminds Whiskey of Tango in the best way possible, which unfortunately makes Whiskey feel nauseous all over again – what the fuck is he even _doing_ here – but he kind of also reminds Whiskey of Bitty in a way that calms him slightly, and of Chowder in a way that almost makes him smile.

“So obviously, there’s been a lot of talk,” Ducky says, after Whiskey has apparently satisfied his curiosity on Samwell’s defensive strategy during last season’s playoffs, “About Eric Bittle. You played with him, right?”

Whiskey stills.

“Uh, yeah. For two years.”

“That long, huh.” Ducky grins. “So, like, is there any chance you’ve got some intel on the whole jam situation?”

“Ducky,” Mickey says, somewhat warningly.

“No, I swear, it’s a whole thing!” Ducky insists. “I used to play with Poots on the Falconers, okay, and I’m telling you, Poots won’t fucking shut up about it!”

Slowly, Whiskey exhales.

“The jam  _ is  _ a whole thing,” he offers tentatively. “But, it’s not... I mean, Bitty’s jam is the greatest, yes, Poots is absolutely onto something there. It’s just, did he really not mention the pies?”

Ducky’s eyes widen.

“Oh my God. There’s pies, too?”

“Dude,” Whiskey says. He actually smiles. “The  _ pies  _ are where it’s really at.”

“Our nutritionist is gonna be all over this,” someone chirps – Lacer, if Whiskey’s not entirely mistaken. God, he’s gonna need fucking flashcards. "Are we talking, like, blueberry or apple, here? Or is there any chance for apricots?"

Somehow, inexplicably, the conversation about pie lasts all the way until they're lacing up their skates. It's only then that Whiskey realises they've talked a lot about Bitty, and at one point little about Jack, but not for one single second about Bitty  _ and _ Jack. It just hasn't come up, even once. Whiskey's not entirely sure if that should make him feel relieved, or concerned.

Stepping onto the ice is like a breath of fresh air. Whiskey skates a lap, and then another, and it’s like he finally relaxes for the first time since last night. Pretty soon, Mickey calls them to order, and suddenly it’s all starting, but Whiskey still feels like he’s got a decent grip on himself. He’s got this. He can  _ do  _ this.

They run a bunch of drills focused on puck control, at first, and then split up into pairs to work on passing and receiving. And somehow, it all feels achingly familiar. It’s almost like Tango is right there next to Whiskey as he shoots the puck to Ducky over and over again – Whiskey gets the timing exactly right every time, but that's only because he and Tango spent all those hours fucking  _ nailing  _ their passes, last season. And later, when Whiskey races Mickey up the ice in a speed exercise that has him high on adrenaline, it’s almost like Pips skates furiously beside him, like always, pushing and pushing and  _ pushing  _ until Whiskey is giving it everything he’s got and then just a little bit more. It’s weirdly grounding, how every member of the Samwell team seems to manifest themselves through his playing, a constant reminder of how far they’ve all helped him come.

They play something of a mock-game towards the end of it, and Mickey has them changing up the lines again and again. By the time they’re wrapping things up, Whiskey thinks he’s played alongside each of the other forwards at least once.

They’re all good. They’re all really fucking good.

Mickey claps a hand on his back as they’re stepping back into the locker room.

“Not bad,” he says. “You’re fast.”

_ Not as fast as Pips,  _ Whiskey doesn’t tell him.  _ And neither are you. _

“I try to be,” he says instead, and Mickey grins.

“You’ll catch up to an old man like me in no time,” he chirps kindly. “Now, I think Larsen wants to get hold of you sooner rather than later. Let’s try not keep her any longer, eh?”

Unsurprisingly, Emily Larsen is waiting for him when he steps out of the locker room.

“There you are,” she says brightly. “Welcome to Houston, Connor. We’re so happy to have you here at such short notice.”

He’s ushered off to something that turns out to be a meeting. There’s at least three different people who shake his hand on the way there – one of them is the nutritionist, who has somehow already heard rumors about baked goods. 

Emily promises not to keep him for too long, but she does have a few things that apparently can’t wait. She goes over the draft of his contract, aided by someone from the legal department who is able to answer some of Whiskey’s questions, which is good. Or well, it’s at least informative. Then there’s the question of housing options, which Whiskey decides to postpone until all of this is actually completely settled. He’s in a hotel, for now, which is perfectly fine. Finally, Emily runs through a brief power-point presentation on the Aeros, their history, and some aspects of life in Houston. Which isn’t uninteresting, exactly, but Whiskey is sort of more fucking exhausted than he remembers being in last year’s playoffs.

“Almost done,” Emily reassures him as she changes yet another slide.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, the next headline captures Whiskey’s full attention.  _ Outreach Activities – You Can Play & The Rainbow Puck Foundation. Our values and vision. _

“Well,” Emily says. She looks at the screen, her expression almost a little confused. “This is, you know. What we stand for, and all of that.”

And just like that, she’s moved on to the next slide.

Right.

Whiskey checks into his hotel room, puts his suitcase down, makes it to the bed and sleeps for three hours.

When he wakes up, he’s got seven missed calls and more than twenty texts.

Most of the texts are from Miguel. Whiskey smiles softly while he scrolls through Miguel's more than familiar stream-of-consciousness. It's perhaps a little more chipper than usually, almost as if Miguel is making an effort to sound nothing but cheerful. Whiskey's heart aches desperately as he types up a few lines in response.  _ got here okay. practice was fine. will call you tonight. I miss you so fucking much. _

The calls are from Dex, Chowder, Louis and Pips. Pips has called twice, Dex thrice. Dex has also sent him five texts.

The last one contains Jack Zimmermann’s phone number.

_ call Jack, okay? he’d really like to hear from you. Bitty says hi, by the way. _

Whiskey plugs in his phone, and gets up. If he’s going to have a heart to heart with one of the most high-profile players in the league, he’s going to take another shower, first, and his phone is going to have more than six percent battery.

About half an hour later, he’s put on pajamas, because _ fuck it, _ and settled into an armchair by the window with his hair still damp. His hands barely shake as he carefully types in the number.

Jack Zimmermann doesn’t pick up until the seventh ring.

“Connor?” he asks by way of greeting.

“Yeah.” Whiskey pulls his knees up to his chest and fiddles with the hem of his pajama pants. “Hi.”

“Give me just one second.” There’s a bustling noise, the sound of a door closing and then quiet. “There. It’s nice to talk to you again.”

“You, too.” God, Whiskey has no idea how the fuck he’s supposed to navigate this. “I hope this isn’t a bad time?”

“Not at all,” Jack reassures him. “How are you?”

“Um.” Whiskey grimaces. “Tired?”

“I can imagine,” Jack says, his voice surprisingly warm. “Dex filled me in a little bit, this morning. You’re already in Houston, right?”

“That’s right, yeah.”

“How are things, so far?”

“Not bad,” Whiskey decides, after a moment’s consideration. “I don’t really… I mean, I’ve actually barely had time to think about it.”

Jack hums.

“How long do you have, before you need to give them a definite answer?”

“Until Sunday.”

“Sunday. Okay.” Jack pauses momentarily. “That’s not unreasonable, on their part. Sometimes these things happen really fast.”

“Right. Okay.”

“Can I ask… Do you have an agent?”

“No, actually.” Whiskey runs a hand through his hair. “I haven’t really... I mean, I’ve basically been thinking that there would still be time before I’d need to consider these things more seriously. This opportunity was very unexpected.”

“Okay.” There’s another moment of silence before Jack speaks again. “Look, I’m just going to be very blunt about this. How much are these guys offering you?”

“Ah,” Whiskey says. He tries to remember – there’s been numbers mentioned, several of them, something about a signing bonus and a monthly salary and Whiskey’s barely registered anything beyond how that’s a _ lot  _ of digits, holy cow. “I haven’t… Honestly, the financial aspect has sort of been the last thing on my mind.”

“Okay,” Jack says again, and there’s something of a smile in his voice. “I understand that, I really do. There are a lot of other important factors. It’s just, you should  _ definitely  _ think about getting an agent.”

“No, I know,” Whiskey agrees readily. “I, uh. This has all just happened really fast.”

“I’m getting that.” There’s no judgement in Jack’s tone. “But you haven’t actually signed anything yet, right? Not even some non-disclosure formality?"

“No, nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Then you’ve got the ball in your corner, still,” Jack says encouragingly. “Or, you know. The puck. This is all going to play out the way you decide is best, in the end.”

“... Right.” Suddenly, Whiskey wants to laugh. Fuck, he’s so  _ tired.  _ “The thing is, I’ve honestly got no clue how I’m supposed to figure that out. There’s no telling if I’ll ever get a better offer than this, and that’s... A major concern for me. This is what I want to  _ do, _ and I don’t know if I can afford to pass up on this chance. But I never imagined that I would need to be ready to take this step so soon, and I… I just don’t know if I’m going to be.” 

“Okay,” Jack says. And this time, he doesn’t need to pause and consider before he responds. “Look. The only thing you need to do, here, is make sure that you do right by yourself and what it is that  _ you  _ need. Okay? I know the Aeros are in a bit of a hurry, at the moment – I’ve heard all about those injuries and the estimated recovery times. They’re going to have several key players out for the rest of the season, and that’s certainly an urgent situation for them. Now, I’ve seen the way you play, Connor, and I’m more than familiar with your statistics. You’re good. Clearly, this is a move that makes complete sense for the Houston Aeros. The real question is, is it something that’s going to make complete sense for you?”

Whiskey closes his eyes for a moment. He exhales, and feels his shoulders relax a bit. Huh. When he opens his eyes again, looking out over the unfamiliar city outside his window, it’s like he finally has a moment of clarity.

“I don’t know,” he says, almost steadily. “I thought it might.”

“Well,” says Jack Zimmermann. He sounds almost fond, which is of course completely ridiculous. Clearly, Whiskey is having some sort of sleep-deprived hallucination. “Maybe don't rule it out after your very first day. But you might want to give that some serious thought, during the rest of this week.”

“Yeah.” Whiskey inhales, then exhales. “I guess that’s what I’ll have to do.”

Their conversation continues for a little while longer. Jack inquires about some of the Samwell team members, and coach Hall and Murray, and Whiskey finds himself surprisingly at ease as they take turns sharing a few personal anecdotes about Faber, and the Haus. It's never quite struck him, before, how much of a shared history he has with the generations of Samwell team members that came before him.

"I'd really like to stay in touch," Jack says before they hang up. Surprisingly, he tacks on something of a chirp. "If you're going to be my new competition, I'd like to know what I'm up against."

"I don't think I could give  _ you _ competition," Whiskey tells him honestly, and if that reveals just a little more of Whiskey's deep and genuine admiration for Jack than he had maybe intended to show, well, so be it.

"Don't be so sure," Jack says plainly. "Take care out there, Connor. I'll talk to you soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> meet Ducky. Ducky plays hockey. Ducky _loves_ sweets. Ducky may or may not be about to binge-watch all of Bitty's baking vlogs. he's in for quite a ride.
> 
> this fic just got a shiny new summary! one that hopefully communicates the story a bit better, now that I actually know what it's about. start by writing an outline who? we haven't met.
> 
> expect the next update this weekend, ish! ♡


	20. future

Miguel meets him at the airport.

"Got you a flat white," he says gently. "Here. Let me help you with that."

He takes Whiskey's hockey bag out of his hands and offers him a warm paper cup, instead. Their fingers brush, just briefly. Whiskey wants to fucking cry.

"I've missed you," he says, helplessly.

"Right back at you." Miguel swings Whiskey's bag over his shoulder with evident ease. Whiskey's breath hitches. He almost forgets, sometimes, that he's actually dating a fellow NCAA athlete. "Come on. Car's this way. Dex is pretty cool, by the way, our music tastes actually align fairly-"

Whiskey stops him with a hand on his arm.

"Can I, uh." He takes a breath. "I just need to say this. I've been thinking about the exact words since takeoff."

Miguel stills. Immediately, his expression turns cautious.

"Go on, then."

"We didn't have time to talk properly, before I left." Whiskey averts his gaze for just a moment. He hasn't felt so afraid of losing something in a very long time. "So, I just wanted to be very clear about the fact that no matter how this plays out, I really don't want to let you go. And I… I hope that's the way you feel about this, too."

"Oh, don't be fucking stupid," Miguel says. He's started to smile again. "I'm in this for real, okay? I don't want to let you go, either. That's literally the last thing I want."

Whiskey exhales. He smiles, too.

"Alright. Good."

"Yeah. Good." Miguel is watching him sort of curiously. "This is unexpected, though. You actually haven't made a decision, yet? I thought for sure that you were about to tell me, just now."

"I'm still thinking about it," Whiskey admits. "But I'm starting to feel like I will know the right answer, soon. They did give me until tomorrow, and I intend to take full advantage of that. It is, you know, only the biggest decision of my entire life."

"I support that." Miguel's smile softens. "Just, once you do decide on something… Maybe let me sit down, before you tell me? I'm here for you no matter how this goes, but it's also just going to be… Well. A lot."

"Sure. Yeah, of course."

God, Whiskey wants to reach out for Miguel. He wants to touch, and kiss, and just be. It's been too long.

"You know," he says lightly. "After you've graduated and become a world famous marine biologist, always away on some exciting data collection adventure, I'm going to be missing you quite outrageously."

"Hey, now," Miguel says. His smile is warm. "You'll be pleased to know that I'll also need to retreat to analyze and write articles, from time to time. And if you behave yourself, I just might consider doing that cooped up in your future luxury mansion financed by all those sweet NHL millions. I'd like at least three swimming pools, please."

"How about a private aquarium?" Whiskey offers, and Miguel laughs. "You know, the NHL has such a thing as an off season, too. It's not all practice and roadies."

"You say that like it hasn't been my constant mantra this entire week." Miguel rolls his eyes. "That's my emotional support off season, okay? Hands _off._ If you run away to Texas to play for those tailspin losers, you're still mine from June to September."

"You know, your chirps have gotten kind of incredible, lately." Whiskey actually grins. "Tailspin losers – that's so good."

"I learned from the best." Miguel smiles. "So. Any other aspect of our futures that you wanna hash out in this dreary airport lobby while we keep your perfectly tolerable team captain waiting in his truck, or…?"

"Nah. I'm good." Whiskey smiles, too. "I think we both know where we stand, now."

Miguel's smile softens.

"That's what I said to you, that day at the aquarium. Do you remember?"

"Like I could forget."

"Is that going to be, like, our _thing,_ now?" Miguel asks. He sounds pleased. "I'd kind of really like that."

"Yeah," Whiskey agrees quietly. He lets his gaze trail down from Miguel's eyes, across his cheeks and then up along his jawline to linger for a moment at that soft, sensitive spot right below Miguel's ear. As soon as they're behind closed doors, that's where Whiskey is going to kiss him, first. "That sounds pretty much perfect."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these two. so different, but so alike, so in _sync._ there's this imagery of water and ice that I've got to work in at some point, it'd fit so well.
> 
> I'm so glad y'all are so excited about where this is going! so am I, which is why this semblance of an actual update schedule will continue. next update will be in the coming week!


	21. waterloo

Louis is tired.

It's been a bit of a week. He's had two mock business proposals to finish, plus a pretty big presentation on innovative concepts in virtual-reality entertainment, and consequently, he's spent far too much time trying to recall annoyingly specific descriptors in the English language. And here’s the thing – Louis _knows_ English, okay? He's got the fluency, and certainly the vocabulary. It's not his fucking fault that there's simply no way to translate _skräckblandad förtjusning_ (meaning: _mixed feelings of fear and delight,_ except not quite) while actually retaining that completely essential connotation of _sky high adrenaline rush in the best and worst way possible._

He needs a fucking break.

On Saturday morning, he wakes up late and puts on his favorite jeans and a faded The Ark t-shirt. He packs his backup bluetooth speakers (Nursey's still hogging his best ones, but considering how that's somehow become a major factor in Louis's current strategy for dibs, he's certainly not about to ask for them back) and sets off to make the short trek across campus. When he opens the door to the Haus, he is for once not greeted by the pleasant smell of freshly baked goods.

Perfect.

Louis whistles as he sets up his speakers on the kitchen counter and puts on his playlist of ultimate guilty pleasures, aptly titled _how can I resist you._ He collects a bowl from the usual cupboard and digs through the pantry and fridge for the right ingredients. He doesn't need to look up the recipe. Hasn't needed to for years, now.

He's carefully stirring sugar and eggs together when Hops enters the kitchen.

“You’re baking,” Hops says, and really, he has no business sounding so surprised. Hops baked, like, less than two days ago. Someone’s _always_ baking. “And, wait. Is that ABBA?”

Since the opening of _Waterloo_ is literally blasting from his speakers, Louis doesn’t even bother trying to deny it. He shrugs, instead, and winces as Hops starts to hum along to the lyrics. It takes Hops approximately half the first verse before he realises that Louis isn’t actually playing the English version.

Hops quiets, and looks over towards Louis’s baking project, instead. He grins.

“Hey. Is that gonna be, like, a cake?”

“I mean, kind of.”

Louis starts measuring his dry ingredients in a second bowl, moving mostly on autopilot. Flour. Salt. Cocoa powder.

“You might wanna whisk those eggs, my friend,” Hops says, his tone annoyingly important. “That’s what Dex says, if you wanna get that cake nice and airy-”

“I don’t,” Louis cuts in. “It’s not that kind of cake.”

“Huh.” Unfortunately, Hops sounds completely fascinated. “What kind of cake is it?”

Louis sighs. Fuck. More terminology.

“I think it’s called a mud cake, in English,” he explains, wincing at the words despite the fact that he just chose them himself. “That’s not a literal translation from Swedish, though, and it honestly sounds dumb. Who wants to eat mud?”

“What’s it called in Swedish, then?”

Louis grimaces. “Uh. Sticky cake? Basically. Which sounds way more appetizing in Swedish, I promise. Anyway, it’s actually something of a classic.”

“So it’s, like, traditional?” Hops says, his eyes lighting up. “That’s really cool, man.”

“No, not really, it’s more…” Louis begins, only to trail off. This is actually exactly what he’s been trying to completely avoid, today. “Sorry, Hops, can I just finish baking?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.” Hops takes a couple of steps back. He looks mildly confused. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Great. Thanks.”

Hops wanders out of the kitchen. Someone else comes down the stairs, and Louis barely registers a hushed conversation in the hallway. Moments later, he’s joined by Whiskey, instead.

Whiskey nods towards him, and makes a beeline for the pot of coffee.

Louis finishes his batter and pours it into a springform pan. He pops it in the oven and sets a timer on his phone. There.

When he looks up again, he finds Whiskey watching him over a cup of coffee.

Whiskey doesn’t look merely tired. No, Whiskey looks fucking _exhausted._ Louis belatedly remembers that he hasn’t actually seen Whiskey for a few days, that there's been hushed whispers all week about Whiskey’s sudden and completely unexplained absence. Yet despite all of that, Whiskey has evidently found the time and energy to stick around in the kitchen, just now, and wait for Louis to look his way. Their eyes meet, and Whiskey raises both eyebrows slightly, his expression one of mild concern and careful curiosity.

“It’s nothing,” Louis says, before Whiskey has even asked. “I’m just… I get really tired, sometimes.”

“I get that,” Whiskey says. He’s nodding slowly. “It’s been a really tough season.”

“It’s not… This is different.” Louis pauses. It’s a little easier, this time, to find the right words. “I’m tired of people not getting things. I’m tired of having so _many_ things nobody gets."

"Like cake," Whiskey says lightly, and okay, Hops has definitely put him up to this. "Do you wanna tell me about it?"

Louis shakes his head.

"I'm so fucking tired of _telling_ people shit, I just… I miss just _being._ I miss not constantly looking for the right words. I miss home."

"Ah," Whiskey says. He's nodding again. "Okay. I don't exactly get that, but that's kind of your whole point, isn't it?"

"A little bit, yeah." Louis almost smiles. "Sorry, I don't mean to dump all of my shit on you. You probably have enough going on, at the moment."

"Let's not talk about me," Whiskey says evasively, and alright, apparently that's not a conversation they're about to have, right now. "Listen, do you wanna… Okay, this might sound sort of stupid."

Louis raises both eyebrows.

"Try me."

"Talk to me in Swedish, for a bit."

"What?" Louis frowns. "I'm afraid you'd find that entirely incomprehensible."

"No, I know." Whiskey smiles slightly. "I promise I'll still nod and hum in all the right places. Okay?"

Despite that reassurance, Louis hesitates. It honestly sounds really fucking dumb. Whiskey is watching him sort of expectantly, though, and fuck it, he might as well try. Because if Whiskey has for some reason made it his mission to cheer Louis up despite the fact that Whiskey’s clearly got some sort of huge, unacknowledged crisis of his own to deal with, the very least Louis can do is humour him.

"Det kommer dröja minst fem månader innan jag får träffa min lillsyrra igen, och alltså, hon är _skitjobbig,_ men det är ändå fan inte okej."

Louis pauses. Whiskey is nodding, as promised, and his expression actually looks just the right level of sympathetic.

Huh.

Louis keeps talking.

He tells Whiskey about his other siblings, too, about his two older brothers who are actually occasionally even worse than his sister. It's kind of a miracle that he misses them all as much as he does. He talks about his stupidly boring home town, about that one coffee place that's clearly superior to all the rest and the outdoor rink that's right by the lake, about his mom's cinnamon buns and a fresh sheet of ice and that gorgeous sunrise and his best friend right _there,_ lacing up her skates next to Louis and prattling on about some new band she's just discovered that Louis absolutely must listen to, and-

Louis's phone buzzes.

Immediately, Louis cuts himself off mid-sentence and practically lounges for the oven mittens. He carefully takes out the cake, which to the untrained looks like it's not _quite_ done, yet. 

Fucking perfection.

"Hey, now," Whiskey says. He sounds amused. "I'm sure five more seconds would've been fine."

"Är du dum på riktigt, eller, tänk om…" Oh. Right. "And risk overbaking this baby? Not on my watch."

"If you say so." Whiskey looks a bit curious. "I think I actually caught, like, two or three words out of all that. One of them was definitely _idiot."_

"Probably." Louis shrugs. "You should meet my siblings, sometime."

"I'd have to brush up on my Swedish, first."

"Nah. Clearly, you're a natural."

Whiskey smiles, and Louis actually finds it fairly easy to smile back. He feels a little less tense, compared to before. A little more grounded.

"So. Turns out that wasn't completely pointless." Louis grins. And then, because it feels like that kind of moment, he continues. "I'm gonna vote for you, you know. As captain."

Something very complicated passes over Whiskey's expression.

"I know you're gonna do great," Louis adds. God, why is Whiskey looking at him like that? He must know that he's basically guaranteed to be chosen, already. _Everyone_ knows. "And we're all gonna have your back. Alright?"

"Thanks, man." Whiskey's not quite meeting his eyes. "I should, uh. I've got to go."

"You should have some cake," Louis says firmly. He digs out a spoon from the top drawer and carefully traces it along the inside of the springform pan, before removing the sides. The slice he cuts only just holds together. He grins in satisfaction as he hands Whiskey the plate. "Here. You won't regret it, I promise."

Whiskey barely smiles. He still looks a bit shaken up. Louis wonders if he should mention this to Dex, or Tango and Ford, or maybe to that one water polo kid who's always hanging around the Haus, lately. To someone Whiskey actually talks to about stuff.

"Oh my _God."_

Whiskey has taken his first bite. He's staring at his plate in disbelief.

"What the… This is, like, some sort of fucking chocolate heaven. In my mouth. What the _fuck."_ He takes another bite. "Why aren't you making this every day, always?"

"Kitchen's usually busy, isn't it?" Louis serves himself a generous slice. "Glad you like it, though."

"I'm gonna need more of this, like, yesterday," Whiskey says decisively, just as at least three people enter the kitchen at once.

"You baked, Louis? 'Swasome."

"Fuck, that smells _so_ good."

"Plates! We need plates!"

Even in the middle of the general mayhem that ensues, Louis doesn't miss the fact that Whiskey cuts himself an extra slice before he's even finished his first, locates a second spoon and quietly leaves the kitchen. Which all seems a little excessive, maybe, but Whiskey's evidently going through some shit right now, and if plenty of cake and a high quantity of cutlery is what's gonna get him through it, Louis won't judge.

"Hey," Jader says, already halfway through his second slice. "That guy on your shirt looks pretty hot. Who is he?"

"He's a singer." Louis reaches for his phone. The best thing about music is, it never needs to be explained. "And a fucking legend. Take a deep breath, okay? You're in for quite a ride."

He puts on _It Takes A Fool To Remain Sane,_ and serves himself a second slice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you ever find yourself in need of the best recipe for kladdkaka, or obscure Swedish music recommendations, have no fear. I've got your back.
> 
> Now, I know what you're thinking. Lots of love for Louis, but is there _any_ chance we could get back to Whiskey, and y'know, the _actual plot?_ Yes. Next time. It's finally happening, folks. Stay tuned!


	22. moment of truth

It's 13:52 on Sunday afternoon when Whiskey knocks on the open door to coach Hall's office.

"Do you have a minute?"

Coach Hall looks up from the folder he's browsing through. If he's surprised to see Whiskey wearing jeans and a hoodie when practice starts in less than ten minutes, he doesn't show it.

"Connor. Good to see you." Coach Hall sets the folder aside. "Will mentioned that you had something very urgent come up, this week."

"That's right." Whiskey closes the door behind him and sits down in the chair opposite coach Hall's desk. "I'm sorry I had to be absent at such short notice."

"No notice, is more like it," coach Hall points out. His tone is not unkind. "I hope, Connor, that you feel comfortable talking to me and Murray when there's something that you're dealing with. We're always here to support you, you know."

"... Right." Suddenly, Whiskey wonders why he hasn't once considered the idea of talking through the situation with his coaches. That might've actually helped him figure things out, sooner. "Yeah, of course."

"Well," coach Hall says mildly. His expression is tentatively curious. "Was there something specific you wanted to talk about, today?"

"Actually, yes."

There's really nothing left, now, except to come right out and say it.

"I just turned down a six-figure contract with the Houston Aeros."

Coach Hall sits up a little straighter.

"Connor," he says, almost sharply. "Connor, that's… That's a  _ really _ big deal. And certainly not just financially."

"I know," Whiskey agrees. "It would've been. But I've thought about it a lot, and realised that it's just not right for me, right now."

Coach Hall opens and closes his mouth, twice. He's frowning slightly.

"Are you sure?" he asks, a little wearily. "Are you  _ absolutely _ sure? You do know just how big of an opportunity this is?"

"No, I know. And I'm sure." Whiskey actually smiles. "Going to Houston this week has reminded me that I'm actually exactly where I need to be, right now. Their team is very good, and I did appreciate the ambition of the Aeros's organisation, but there are many places I could play that meet those exact requirements and Samwell happens to be one of them. Besides, there’s still so many things that I'm learning, here, that I honestly don't think I could truly develop anywhere else. I've come so much further with how I think about teamwork and leadership, but at the same time I feel like I've only just scratched the surface of all of that, and I just… I'm not done, here. No matter what comes next, I know I need to finish this chapter, first."

Whiskey falls silent. Coach Hall watches him for a moment, before he responds. He's smiling, now.

"As long as you're sure," he says warmly. "Obviously, we would absolutely hate to lose you. It'd be such a nightmare, trying to get this team to have some semblance of direction without you."

"Oh. Uh. Thank you, I guess." God, Whiskey is definitely not used to coach Hall looking so openly proud and emotional. At least not when they're not winning NCAA championships together. It's more than a little unsettling. "Jack Zimmermann says hi, by the way. He thinks I should probably start to consider getting myself an agent."

"Don't tell me those Falconers are after you, too," coach Hall says amiably. "Our dear Jack definitely makes a good point, though. You know, me and Murray could actually help you look into all of that. If you'd like us to?"

"Oh," Whiskey says again. Another possibility he's never once entertained. What was it Dex said at the beginning of this week, about relying on all of his support systems? "Actually, that would be so great."

"I'll make a few calls," coach Hall promises. "Right now, though, I believe you and I both have practice to attend."

"Actually, I'm going to need to sit out, today," Whiskey says quickly. "It's been a pretty rough week. But, uh, I'd really like to just speak to the team, first? Just quickly. I promise I won't keep them for long."

Coach Hall smiles again.

"Of course. That's perfectly fine. Go on, then, Connor."

When Whiskey enters the locker room, the ongoing conversation immediately quiets in a way that isn't exactly subtle. Pips is looking at him, and so is Louis, and when he makes no move to change into his hockey gear, he soon captures the full attention of at least half the room.

"Can I talk for a second?"

It's maybe a silly thing to say, given that most of them are clearly listening to him, already, but it still makes the energy change significantly. There's something expectant in his teammates's expressions as they all turn to look towards him. It's almost like they've been waiting for his moment of truth this entire week. Which, Whiskey belatedly realises, they actually might have been.

Well. Nothing else for it.

"I'm going to sit out practice, today. I've had a bit of a week, and I honestly just need to go and crash. But first, I really want to get you guys in the loop about something that's been going on, now that it’s all settled."

Whiskey pauses. Making the call to Houston was tough, but this is somehow turning out to be much more nerve wracking. Which doesn't really make any sense. This is supposed to be the easy conversation, the one where he doesn't need to deliver any bad news.

Whiskey takes a shaky breath. If he just gets this over with, he can  _ finally _ get some actual fucking sleep.

"I’ve just spent four days training with the Houston Aeros, who have offered me the opportunity to sign a contract with them, which I’ve decided to decline. So, that’s that."

A few seconds pass as the entire team stares at Whiskey in silence.

"Wait," Joyo says slowly. "The Houston Aeros? Like, the NHL team?"

Whiskey has to bite back a smile.

"No, the other Houston Aeros," he says, just a bit dryly.  _ "Yes,  _ Joyo, the NHL team."

"What the fuck, man," Louis says. He looks oddly impressed. "That sounds pretty big."

"Yeah," Bully chimes in. "That sounds  _ very _ big. Extremely big. Are you, like, completely sure?"

There's something of a murmur of agreement.

"I'm sure," Whiskey says firmly. "There are obviously a lot of pros and cons, but ultimately-"

"What if you regret it?"

It's Pips who's spoken up. He looks a little more shaken up than the rest of them, and there's a definite quiver in his voice as he continues.

"Playing in the NHL is what you  _ want, _ isn't it? What if you stay, to play here with us, and we don't… And it ends up not being worth it, in the end? What if we're just holding you back?"

"Hey, no. No." Impulsively, Whiskey takes a step forward. "Look. I've never thought more about anything in my life, and I've honestly never felt more certain about a decision. Not ever. Please try to believe that."

Pips doesn't look like he believes that. He looks more like he's about to fucking cry. Whiskey desperately tries to recall everything he managed to tell coach Hall just minutes earlier, all those perfectly coherent thoughts and reasons he's settled on after a whole week of careful consideration. He fails. It's like those words don't even exist inside his brain, anymore, now that Pips is looking at him like Whiskey has just made his entire world fall apart.

The words that do come to Whiskey are a lot more vulnerable than he’d ever thought he might find himself comfortable with.

"You know, it's actually kind of funny." Whiskey smiles, helplessly. He knows he must be looking all soft around the edges, and there's a very poorly concealed tremor in his voice. He still carries on. "I've realised so much, this week, but it hasn't been about hockey, or even about the reality of going pro. Honestly, it's been more about all of you. You guys have all taught me so fucking much, and every time that I stepped out on the ice in Houston, I just… I felt that. It was like I was carrying that with me. Like I was carrying  _ you _ with me. You guys make me better, always, and there are still so many ways that you're helping me grow. And the thing is, I'm not anywhere near ready to let that go. Maybe I should be, maybe it'd be smart or whatever, but I'm just  _ not, _ and I'm the only one who gets to make that call. So, I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying. I'm going to be a senior on this team, and I'm going to graduate."

He pauses briefly. It's not like his words have the exact effect he hoped for – Pips is  _ actually _ crying, now, for one – but Pips has started to smile, too, and so have many of the others. Tango is wiping at his eyes, and Ford's got an overwhelmingly fond expression, and Dex is looking all sorts of proud and pleased and emotional. Fuck. If Whiskey doesn't manage to lighten the mood, somehow, this is definitely going to derail into some sort of collective crying session.

"And we're going to take this thing all the way through the fucking playoffs!" he adds, with as much energy as he can manage. "Right?"

There's a few whoops of approval and some much needed laughter. Pips is still crying, though, and actually, so is Jader. And suddenly, both Dex and Ford are getting up to give Whiskey a hug. Soon, there's an actual fucking  _ line _ forming.

He’s not crying. He’s  _ not. _

"If you weren't already fucking locked in for the captaincy," Tango says under his breath when they hug, "This would've sealed the deal."

The team doesn't make it out on the ice for quite a while. Their coaches don't come looking for them, though, most likely because Hall probably had a hunch something like this might happen. He can be awfully perceptive, sometimes.

_ "I carry you with me," _ Louis quotes, grinning. They've all settled down a little. Emphasis on little. "Is that gonna be the new  _ got your back, _ now?"

"Nah," Ford says. She sounds surprisingly confident. "It's just different words for the same thing."

"Is it, though?" Louis wonders thoughtfully.

"It is," Whiskey admits. He's finally managed to sit down. "It absolutely is."

"Dude," Hops says eagerly. He’s looking at Whiskey with something like actual excitement. "You've  _ got  _ to give us the scoop on the Aeros."

“Oh, yes!” Joyo agrees enthusiastically. “Oh my God. Start with  _ everything.” _

“What’s their usual practice like?”

“Are they even any good?”

“Think they’re gonna make the playoffs?”

“That signature play, when Ducky passes to Lacer as he's moving down the ice without as much as a glance over his shoulder. How the  _ fuck  _ do they time that?”

Whiskey smiles.

“They don’t. Time that, I mean. They just fucking shoot, and then pray, and somehow, it connects. But no, I don’t actually think we’ll be seeing them in the playoffs. They’re very good, and some of their defensive plays are  _ really _ something, but their best forwards are gonna be out for a while and they’ve got a little too far to catch up. But, uh, maybe don’t tell Ducky I said that.”

“Whiskey,” Pips says admonishingly. He’s actually full-on grinning, now –  _ finally.  _ Whiskey is so relieved, his eyes almost water all over again. “When and where, exactly, did you imagine that we’d all be exchanging chirps with Ducky?”

“Um.” Whiskey hasn’t been sure of when he should mention this part. Apparently, there’s no time like the present. “At our next game? I ended up getting a couple of the guys tickets. And actually, I sort of already promised Ducky that I’d get him a signed Samwell jersey, so. You guys all better have my back on that.”

It takes about five seconds before the room collectively loses it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your eyes are not deceiving you - that is an actual total chapter count for this story! there are now officially four chapters left, and as I'm sure you can tell from this one, it's time to start wrapping things up. next up: Dex, Nursey and a walk across campus.


	23. valentine's

Nursey is having an unbelievably 'swasome birthday.

He's been feeling kind of amazing ever since the moment he woke up, this morning. Being roused from sleep by your exceptionally gorgeous boyfriend sliding your briefs down to give you some truly fantastic birthday head will do that to you. After, Dex had kissed Nursey slowly and languidly and just the way Nursey likes it best, before dragging him off to a surprise team breakfast. Everyone had sang for him, there'd been hugs and gifts and an amazing salted caramel apple pie that Dex had somehow baked without his knowledge. Dex had also managed to find him a poetry collection by Ocean Vuong that Nursey actually hasn’t read, yet, Chowder had gotten him Tina Brown’s autobiography, there'd been bath bombs from the Tadpoles and scented candles from the Waffles and three different kinds of chocolate truffles from the Scones.

Nursey has been smiling like a lunatic through all of his classes.

It's got it's ups and downs, having valentine's day as your birthday. Nursey genuinely appreciates the vibe of the whole thing – an entire day that's all about earnest declarations of love and elaborate, romantic gestures? Wow.  _ Yes. _ Nursey  _ loves _ love, okay? He's a sucker for romance, a goner for purposeful, passionate prose, a foolish mortal on an endless chase for all that is sentimental and sensual and sweet. Valentine's day is, in so many ways, the very definition of Nursey's aesthetic.

But here's the thing: everyone tends to make plans with their significant others, rather than set aside time to celebrate with Nursey. Which is, you know, to be expected. At least nowadays, when most of Nursey's friends are rarely single for very long. When he was younger, and his friends didn't date  _ quite _ as compulsively, it wasn't actually half as much of an issue.

It's not like Nursey actually minds all that much, though. Honestly, he's very happy that so many of his friends are happy and in love. And hey – this year, Nursey's boyfriend somehow found a way to have literally  _ everyone _ involved in an impressively elaborate birthday surprise, while at the same time making sure they'd have the evening clear to celebrate valentine's day, too, just the two of them.

Nursey smiles helplessly. His  _ boyfriend. _ The wonderful, gorgeous man who is, quite officially, in love with him.

Isn't that just something?

Currently, they're sprawled out together on Dex's bed. Nursey has his legs loosely intertwined with Dex's, and he's flicking through one of his new books at a leisurely pace. He keeps getting distracted, though. It's something he's been delicately aware of all day, how he didn't get the chance to reciprocate for Dex that morning.

They have plenty of time now, is the thing. And Nursey is all about equality in relationships.  _ Especially _ if it means he'll get to have Dex's dick in his mouth sooner rather than later.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, Dex sits up.

"Can we go for a walk?"

Nursey raises both eyebrows in surprise.

"Now?" he asks carefully. "I, uh. I actually thought this, right now, was pretty much perfect. You, me... A bed."

A smile tugs at Dex's lips, but for some reason he shakes his head.

"I want to take you for a walk," he repeats, quite firmly. "It's, you know. Nice outside."

Nursey narrows his eyes. Seriously?

"It's  _ nice outside," _ he repeats. "You're up to something. Aren't you?"

Dex grins.

"Yeah. I am."

"And terrible at keeping secrets," Nursey chirps. But okay, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't getting curious. Very curious. "Does this have anything to do with that thing that you've been, what was it… Working on?"

"Maybe," Dex says lightly. He gets up from the bed, and reaches out a hand towards Nursey. "Come on. I promise this won't take all night."

It  _ is _ nice outside, Nursey thinks, as they're walking across campus hand in hand. Really nice, even. There's other couples out and about pretty much everywhere, walking home from their dates or going out to get dessert. Nursey knows his smile is probably ridiculously soft as he takes it all in, but he can't really bring himself to care very much. It's valentine's  _ and _ his birthday. He's allowed a few moments of unfiltered happiness.

Just as Dex starts to make an unexpected turn, Nursey stops them for a second.

"Look," he says, nodding to their left. "The Tadpoles."

Dex turns his head, and something about his smile changes. Nursey thinks he might know why. Whiskey, Tango, Ford and that water polo dude (Miguel, if Nursey's not entirely mistaken? The kid's around so much, it's a wonder he hasn't ended up with an official SMH nickname, yet) are heading off somewhere together. Tango and Ford are trailing behind the other two, a little bit. Ford is talking excitedly, her hands gesturing in apparent eagerness, and Tango is smiling and nodding and actually fucking  _ listening, _ for once. They look... Cozy.

"Tango and Ford, huh?" Nursey grins. "About fucking time."

"You think?" Dex asks. He sounds thoughtful. "I'm not so sure."

Nursey glances over towards the two lovebirds again. There's no handholding, sure, but  _ so _ much eye contact and plenty of chirps, if Nursey's not entirely mistaken. It's definitely  _ something. _

"I don't know, man, the attic's worked it's magic under more improbable circumstances," Nursey points out. Except, Dex's doubt actually makes him somewhat hesitant. "Then again, they're evidently doing a group thing. On  _ valentine's. _ It'd be different if it was, like, a double date. Don't you think?"

For some reason, that makes Dex glance over towards the Tadpoles again. His smile softens, just a bit.

"Yeah. You're probably right."

"Still, this clearly warrants a betting pool for our dynamic attic duo," Nursey adds. How did he not think of this, sooner? "Maybe they're not  _ there, _ yet, but I still think they will be."

"If you say so." Dex tugs gently at his hand. "Come on. I really want to show you this, okay?"

"Oh. Yeah, of course."

Nursey lets himself be led in the same, unusual direction that Dex was going in, before – towards the art building.

Huh.

"It's a surprise concert, isn't it?" he jokes. Still, there's definitely some sort of auditorium in there. "You got the Samwell University Marching Band to arrange a special version of Happy Birthday. You're singing lead."

Dex shakes his head. He's smiling.

"You got all your birthday presents this morning," he says quietly. "This is more of a valentine's gift."

"... Oh." Nursey glances at him. Dex is looking vulnerable, and so earnest, and actually quite nervous. Fuck, Nursey is so in  _ love. _ "Alright. Lead the way."

Dex does. He guides Nursey to the entrance and doesn't quite meet Nursey's eyes as he casually pulls a key out of his pocket. Then they're inside, and Dex leads him through a myriad of hallways with practiced ease before stopping to unlock another door. Nursey reads the sign that hangs from the ceiling.  _ Wood Workshop B. _ Huh.

They enter.

Well. Definitely a wood workshop.

Dex tugs him along to a corner of the room, where there's some sort of  _ very _ large object hidden underneath a sheet of white fabric. A big, red bow is attached to the side of it.

Dex lets go of his hand.

"You, uh. You get to pull it off."

"You got a big box," Nursey jokes. Really, it's  _ got _ to be a box. A box that might not even fit inside Nursey's room. "I've gotta say, I'm impressed."

Even in his inexplicable state of what almost seems like mild panic, Dex still manages to roll his eyes.

"Chill, Nurse. Just play along, okay?"

"Sorry." Nursey glances at Dex. Suddenly, he almost feels nervous, too. "Here I go, then. Alright?"

Dex nods, once.

Nursey takes hold of the fabric with both hands and pulls hard. It goes flying in the air and ends up tangled in a pile at their feet.

"What the…" Nursey takes a shaky step forward. Of course, his feet get caught in the stupid fabric and he almost falls over. "Dex, you… You didn't."

It's a table.

It's  _ the _ table.

Except... The wood seems warmer in color, somehow. It's still so beautiful, maybe even more so than Nursey remembers it, and when he trails his fingertips along the surface of it it's so fucking soft to the touch. The legs are also made of wood, as opposed to the dark metal that Nursey definitely recalls. It actually gives the table a more cohesive look. Really, it's honestly kind of... Perfect. Amazing. Complete fucking  _ gorgeous. _

Most importantly, though, this table is in mint condition without a single scratch, and it smells pleasantly of some sort of natural oil that must have recently been applied as a top coat. It's not from any thrift shop. It's new.

Slowly, Nursey turns towards Dex.

"You," he says faintly. "You built this?"

Dex nods. He's watching Nursey closely.

"Yeah. I did."

"For  _ me?" _

Dex almost smiles.

"Yeah."

Nursey looks back at the table. He feels like he needs to sit down. Except, he thinks a little hysterically, Dex didn't think to build chairs.

"You know," Dex starts. He's taken Nursey by the hand again. "It's a little bit for me, too. But more than that… It's a promise."

"A… A promise." It's fucking magnetic, the way those words make him turn right back towards Dex. "What, uh. What are you promising?"

Dex squeezes his hand tightly.

"That we'll figure it out."

Nursey's breath hitches.

It is, objectively, a very cryptic answer. It should be completely bewildering, or at least somewhat confusing.

It's not.

"I know you still don't know where you'll end up, this fall," Dex continues gently. He sounds thoughtful. "If it'll be Berkeley, or Columbia, or Brown. And I know that we've technically only dated six months, and that our last attempt at cohabitation was an epic disaster, and that we're still really young, and that there's many eventualities yet to come. But I'm, I just…"

Dex pauses. He takes a second to look over at the table, again. No, actually –  _ their _ table. Nursey's mind spins. It's almost too much.

A few moments later, Dex meets his eyes steadily.

"You're it," he says. His tone is kind of frighteningly certain. "Okay? You're it."

Nursey needs to kiss him, then. He physically fucking  _ must. _ Dex smiles against his lips, and it's so familiar, but at the same time all new and so full of potential. To think that Dex wants him, wants  _ him, _ in so many ways that Nursey would once never have dreamed possible. It's mindblowing, and exhilarating, and completely fucking  _ perfect. _

The thing is, though, that Nursey is something of a dumbass. It's a well established fact. Which is why, when he eventually pulls back, these are the first words out of his mouth.

"I got you a box of peanut butter fudge."

Dex quirks an eyebrow. He looks amused, in an endeared sort of way.

"That's chill. I do love fudge."

"It's not  _ chill," _ Nursey protests weakly. God, he feels like such an idiot. "It's the fucking opposite of chill! Oh my God. You've… Fuck, you really just did  _ that." _

"Hey," Dex says. He sounds almost concerned. "Breathe, okay? Do you wanna sit down?"

"I don't know." Suddenly, Nursey recalls his thoughts from before. "Why don't you construct a couple of chairs, and  _ maybe _ I'll think about it."

"I mean," Dex says. He grins, briefly. "Not gonna lie, I do have some blueprints."

"No. Oh my God,  _ stop." _ Fuck. Nursey needs to take control over this narrative, like, yesterday. "Listen. You don't get to give me anything for valentine's for the rest of our lives. Fuck, this is… It's fucking  _ everything, _ okay, and if I'm ever going to even out this outrageous imbalance between us, I'm going to need a lifetime of valentine's day gifts to catch up."

It's really something, the way Dex's expression turns softer and softer the more Nursey complains.

"A lifetime," Dex repeats. He smiles gently. "That long, huh?"

"I mean. That's the idea, isn't it?" Nursey gestures helplessly towards the table. "I'm in, by the way. We're fucking doing this."

"Yeah?" Dex asks hopefully. His smile turns warm. "That's-"

"If you say chill, _ I swear to God-" _

Dex kisses him again.

It's more gentle, this time, because Dex draws it out, making it soft and languid and  _ just _ the way Nursey likes it best. Fuck. Nursey kind of wants to cry, a little bit. There are so many things he wants to say, so much trust and hope and love that he needs to speak into existence.

Except… Nursey might be something of a poet, yes, but he will always,  _ always _ be a dumbass, first.

"So," he says shakily, after Dex pulls back a little. "Do we christen this lovely piece of furniture now, or…?"

Dex chokes on his laughter. He brushes his lips against Nursey's ear.

"You," he says, his voice low and heated and a complete contrast to his words, "are  _ very _ lucky that I love you so much."

"Yeah," Nursey breathes out. "I am, quite literally, the luckiest. And also, I'm  _ completely _ serious about getting down on my knees for you, right now. If you want me to."

Dex pulls back a little to meet his eyes. Nursey swallows as Dex evidently contemplates, the proposition hanging in the air between them.

"Let me just…"

Dex takes a step back. He's grinning lazily.

"I need to take care of the door. It opens inwards, so. Won't be difficult to barricade a bit."

"I could help?" Nursey offers quickly.

Dex rolls his eyes affectionately.

_ "You _ could cause a serious accident. No, you just get to watch me carry heavy stuff. It's kind of foreplay, in a way."

"I mean." Nursey licks his lips. "You're not  _ wrong." _

"Oh, I know." Dex's grin widens. "I'll be right back. Okay?"

"Yeah." Nursey swallows. "Okay."

Best valentine's day  _ ever. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just like Dex, I've been building for this chapter for a long time, and it's so nice to have gotten to this point! only three chapters to go, now!
> 
> next up: like things started, they will also end. there's no way I can wrap this up without one more pivotal conversation between Whiskey and Dex.


	24. dibs

Dex finds Whiskey at Faber.

It's not unusual for Whiskey to come to the rink alone. He's been known to stay behind after practice, every so often. Dex had first assumed that Whiskey remained to work on his technique, or his speed, or something else with a clear purpose, but the few times when Dex has lingered long enough to watch Whiskey for a bit, he's always found that Whiskey just… Skates. Around and around, at a surprisingly leisurely pace.

It's something that has made Dex significantly less concerned about Whiskey's otherwise strict and serious relationship with hockey.

Dex laces up his own skates. He joins Whiskey on the ice, bringing their sticks and a puck with him. Whiskey slows down when Dex approaches. He nods as Dex hands him his stick.

"Wanna run some drills?"

"Maybe in a bit." Dex drops the puck on the ice and gives it a slight push in Whiskey's direction. "I was actually hoping I could talk to you about something?"

"Sure. Of course." Whiskey catches the puck and shoots it back, his pass steady without being too forceful. Dex receives it with ease. "I've been wanting to talk to you, too. I think, with how well our offensive plays have worked recently, we could start to focus more on-"

"I've actually got something on my mind that isn't really about the team," Dex cuts in. He pushes the puck back and forth a couple of times without actually passing it. "It's… More of a you and me type thing."

Whiskey raises both eyebrows.

"We have those?"

Dex smiles.

"Sure we do. We're friends, aren't we?"

"No, of course," Whiskey agrees. It's nice, how he doesn't seem to hesitate at all. "I just… No, okay. What's up?"

"I need to give you a heads up about something." Dex passes the puck again, shoots it properly this time. Whiskey barely breaks eye contact as he catches it. "It's what friends do. And I want you to know that I understand this is going to feel a bit strange, for you. But it's going to be a very good thing, too."

Whiskey frowns. He makes a move to pass the puck back to Dex, but then seems to change his mind.

"You're scaring me, a little bit."

Dex smiles again.

"It's nothing bad." He pauses briefly. "I've decided on my dibs, is all."

"Oh." Whiskey's frown deepens slightly. "I don't… How would that affect me?"

"Because I'm giving it to Pips."

Whiskey loses control over the puck. It slips past his stick and continues all the way to the boards, but Whiskey isn't even looking at it.

"You're what?"

"I'm giving my dibs to Pips," Dex repeats carefully. "And I wanted to tell you, first."

Whiskey stares at him. He makes no move to retrieve the puck. After a moment, Dex glides over and gets it himself.

"Well," he says cheerfully. It's almost a chirp. "Good talk."

"No, hold on." Apparently, Whiskey's recovered enough for words. "What about… There are plenty of Waffles, aren't there?"

"Actually, no." Dex shakes his head. "Chowder locked Hops down in January. The poor kid had been doing C's dishes for, like, a month. And Nursey decided on Louis, last week."

"What about Bully, he-"

"Bully's moving off campus with some guys from his class." Dex shrugs. "Seems real psyched about it, too."

"Of course he does," Whiskey mutters. "But Pips? Really?"

Slowly, and very gently, Dex nudges the puck back towards Whiskey.

"Yeah. I know it'll make things weird for you."

"I mean…" Whiskey shoots the puck back with a little more force than before. "He's kind of my Scone, isn't he? If there is such a thing."

"He is," Dex agrees readily. He sends a steady pass to Whiskey, and only barely catches the puck when Whiskey immediately shoots it back. "And he's so important for the future of this team. He's talented, yes, and still getting better every single practice, but more than that, he's got the right energy, the right attitude. He's a team player, someone who's constantly pushing everyone else to try harder. He's going to have your back, this fall, when I won't be around to."

"You're not wrong. In fact, you're so right. But… But  _ dibs." _ Whiskey looks down for a moment. He clenches and unclenches his hands around his stick. "I can't believe… I'd already made up my mind. Ages ago. Maybe I should've actually fucked off to Texas, just so I could snag Pips first."

"Hey, now." Dex smiles. "You know, I had my mind made up, too. Last year. Except, Bitty got there, first."

Abruptly, Whiskey looks up.

Dex passes him the puck again. Whiskey lets it slide right past him.

"Really?" Whiskey asks. He sounds a bit shaken. "Man. Last year?"

"Sure." Dex shrugs. "I did vote for you and all. You're so good for this team, Whiskey. More so than I think you quite realise, even now."

"I think maybe I'm starting to." Whiskey looks down at the ice, turns his stick over a couple of times. "Nice of you to put me in your exact position, next year, when I need to make my choice."

"It's the beauty and tragedy of dibs," Dex tells him cheerfully. "You could still tell Pips that it would've been him, if you want to. Or better yet, give him the A. It's actually been known to work wonders even for the most emotionally constipated idiots on this team. Not that Pips is any of those things, but I'm sure he'd be great, anyway."

"Oh, fuck you." Whiskey grins slightly. "You know, I'd prefer to wait for the actual vote before picking out an assistant captain."

"See?" Dex grins, too. "Just look how much you've grown, man."

Whiskey glides over to retrieve the puck. He looks a little flustered.

"Fine," he says. He shoots the puck back to Dex. "You can have Pips. You've got my permission."

"I wasn't asking for permission, exactly."

"I'm giving it to you, anyway." Whiskey nods, somewhat decisively. "On one condition."

"You know, there's really nothing in the bylaws about-"

"Teach me how to bake one of Bitty's pies."

Dex stares at him.

"What?"

"He taught you, didn't he?" Whiskey shrugs. "It makes sense."

"Hey," Dex says. He smiles. "You don't have to be the same captain Bitty was. You know that, right?"

"Remember how we're waiting for the actual vote?" Whiskey reminds him tersely. Still, he smiles, too. "I just think, someone needs to carry on the tradition. And I'm baking after every kegster, anyway. Might as well be pie, every so often."

"That's nice," Dex admits.

He looks at Whiskey then. Really looks at him. Finds that the complete lack of tension in Whiskey's shoulders isn't half as surprising as it once was. Acknowledges that there's a look of easy confidence in Whiskey's eyes that suits him so well, it's a wonder it wasn't always there. Above all, though, Whiskey looks content, like he's exactly where he's supposed to be and perfectly aware of it.

"You know," Dex says. "I really hope that you and I can stay friends, after I graduate."

"Of course, man." Whiskey grins. "Of course. Honestly, Miguel actually likes you so much, he'd kind of kill me if we didn't all keep hanging out from time to time."

"Well, we can't have that." Dex pauses for a second. "Could I… Would you mind if Nursey found out about you and Miguel? At some point."

"Oh," Whiskey says. For some reason, that makes him look a little curious. "At some point, huh?"

"Well, you know." Dex shrugs. "Eventually."

Whiskey grins.

"I see, I see. So. When's the wedding?"

"No, no, we're not-"

"Oh, but you  _ are." _ Fuck, Whiskey sounds absolutely delighted. "Let me guess. You're following him wherever grad school takes him in the fall, even if it's fucking Alaska, and then it's all domestic bliss and diamond rings from there."

It's… Almost frighteningly accurate.

"Hey." Dex clears his throat. "Should we, like, actually run some drills?"

"Sure. Yeah, sure." For some reason, Whiskey lets him off the hook. He's still smiling, though. "Just so you know, you can tell Nurse. I trust him more than enough."

"Oh," Dex says. "Alright. Thanks, man."

"It's not something you need to thank me for." Whiskey skates over and steals the puck from Dex with practiced ease. "How about we work on speed, for a bit? If you can keep up."

"In honour of Pips, I assume?" Dex jokes. He smiles when Whiskey nods. "Alright. Bring it on."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hockey, and pie - I really went for a very classic _check, please!_ vibe in this one.
> 
> the next chapter is a little unexpected, maybe, but I really wanted to give Whiskey the chance to get this right. it's going to involve a pie, somewhat indirectly. you can expect it this weekend!


	25. got your back

"Oh lord," Bitty whispers to himself. "Oh my goodness."

How long has it been, since the first time he stood in front of the Samwell hockey Haus with a pie in hand, just like this? Four and a half years? No, even longer. Goodness gracious.

He's been able to visit from time to time, since graduation. Providence is close, after all, and the Samwell team will always hold such a dear place in Bitty's heart. It's just, usually, he's come down to watch a game, and always together with Jack. They've stopped by the Haus, of course, have made their rounds and tried to catch up with everyone. Besides, it's not like they don't see many SMH members, former and current, at various other social occasions every so often.

But it's just… Bitty loves coming back to Samwell with Jack, loves reconnecting with their important people and places together. Yet even so, Bitty's relationship with his former teammates isn't  _ quite _ the same, with Jack added to the equation. Not that going back to the Haus with Jack is bad, or uncomfortable, or anything in between. Not at all. It's just…

Senior year, Bitty became captain. The boys all chose  _ him. _ Stepping into that role, and leading them through that grueling season, through those excruciating, exhilarating, endless playoffs all the way to actual championship victory, is something that still means more than Bitty can put into words. It was  _ everything. _ And Jack was there for all of it, yes, he supported Bitty through all of it – without Jack, Bitty isn't sure if he would've held himself together until the end. But while Jack was there, he wasn't  _ there. _ It wasn't  _ his _ team.

It was Bitty's.

It's not something that Bitty thinks of as a good thing or a bad thing. It's just the truth. And it probably says something that, when Bitty had hesitantly told Jack that he'd been thinking about making a visit to Samwell on his own, Jack had been completely unsurprised. In fact, Jack's smile had been so knowing, he'd almost looked a little bit smug.

"Of course, Bits. You tell your boys hello from me. Don't spoil them with too much pie, eh?"

Bitty adjusts his bowtie, a little wearily. Gosh. He's actually nervous, isn't he? He has literally no reason to be. It's just the boys,  _ his _ boys. His home away from home. They'll be happy to see him. Won't they?

Maybe turning up unannounced was a bad plan.

"Bits?"

Bitty almost jumps, he's so startled.

Thankfully, it's just Dex.

"Morning!" Bitty tries for cheerful. It almost works. "I was in the neighbourhood, so. Thought I'd pop by for a bit."

"It's so good to see you, man." Dex is grinning widely as he goes in for a hug. Bitty somehow manages to balance his pie and wrap one arm around Dex, simultaneously. "How long can you stay?"

"Oh, I wouldn't want to impose too much, I'm sure y'all are swamped with homework and practice and-"

"Don't be an idiot. Everyone's gonna be so psyched to see you." Dex's grin softens. "Actually, today, we're-"

"Bitty!"

"Holy shit, Bits!"

"Pie!"

Bitty can't help his smile as Nursey, Tango and Hops tumble out of the Haus. It's debatable, whether or not Nursey has actually managed to put shoes on.

"Careful," Dex mutters as he swiftly takes the pie out of Bitty's hands. "Got your back, there you go."

It's just in time before Bitty is engulfed in something that feels so much like a celly, his heart actually aches.

"Goodness, I've  _ missed _ y'all." Bitty smiles helplessly. "My, Hops, were you always this tall?"

"Probably," Hops says. He grins widely. "Maybe you just got tinier? Even more itty-bitty."

"Hey, now!" Bitty exclaims. He's grinning, too. Somehow, he has a feeling he'll be doing little else, today. "I'll have you know I'm a perfectly respectable height, Jonathan."

"Come on!" Tango is literally tugging at Bitty's arm in excitement. "This is such perfect timing, we were just-"

"Holy shit. Isn't that Bitty? Hey, everyone, Bitty's here!"

There's the unmistakable sound of a hoard of hockey players sprinting down several flights of stairs, and that's only the calm before the storm.

It takes well over half an hour before Bitty actually makes it inside the Haus.

His heart feels pleasantly warm as he steps into the familiar kitchen. Dex has set his pie to the side of a counter, his aunt’s old curtains are still hanging in the window and someone has managed to keep those plants on the windowsill alive. There's even a couple of succulents that Bitty doesn't quite recognise. Evidently, Bitty's housekeeping ambitions are actually being honored.

Most importantly, though, the kitchen is absolutely bustling with activity.

"We're having a deluxe team breakfast," Chowder is telling him enthusiastically. "Or, well, sort of a team brunch. Except, it's more brunch  _ and _ lunch, really-"

"And snacks!" someone chimes in. It takes Bitty a second to remember his name – Joseph Lyons, one of the so-called Scones. Bitty has met all of the freshmen before, and he's tried his best to be his usual, charming self and make an approachable impression, but there's certainly something of an endearing flush on the boy's cheeks as he speaks directly to Bitty. "We're actually making baked potato bites, soon as Whiskey's done with the oven. I hope you'll like them!"

"Oh, that's exciting! I'm sure they'll be delicious."

Bitty offers Joseph a somewhat distracted smile. Whiskey? The oven?

He looks further into the kitchen, and… Yes. There's Whiskey. He's mixing something in a bowl, and listening to a boy next to him. A boy who is prattling on about something as he chops vegetables, his brown eyes bright with excitement.

A decidedly unfamiliar boy.

"Hey, Ocean," Nursey says – the boy looks up. "Can I borrow that knife, when you're done?"

"Do we want Derek Nurse with a sharp object in hand?" Ocean asks, just a bit too loudly. He grins as the kitchen at large provides a good round of chirps in agreement. "How about you hand me those tomatoes, Nursey, and I'll take care of them for you."

Bitty watches the boy for a moment longer, his brows slightly furrowed. Ocean seems to fit in quite seamlessly. Did he recently transfer from another school? Or did Bitty somehow actually manage to forget a Scone?

"Hey. Bits."

Whiskey has looked up. For some reason, he's watching Bitty with a certain level of apprehension. Bitty quickly offers him a bright smile.

"It's good to see you," he offers, because it truthfully is. "Jack says hello, by the way."

Whiskey smiles, too.

"Tell him I said hi. I hope you're finding the Haus in a decent enough state?"

"Oh, you best be taking special care of my old room, too," Bitty chirps good-naturedly. "I hope it's to your liking, and all?"

"For sure. You can head up and take a look, if you'd like that trip down memory lane." Whiskey's suggestion sounds surprisingly sincere. "You know the way. Door's unlocked."

"Oh," Bitty says. It hasn't been on his list, exactly, but now that it's being offered… "You know, I'll actually take you up on that."

Whiskey nods towards him, once, before returning his attention to his bowl.

Stepping into his old room feels more than a little bit surreal. It's familiar, of course, but also very different. Whiskey clearly keeps it quite neat – the bed's been made, and it's not too cluttered, overall. There's a Samwell banner pinned to the wall and two eye-catchingly colorful yet discreetly minimalist posters above the desk. It all fits in well with how Bitty remembers Whiskey, on and off the ice – here lives someone with a good amount of discipline, and a simultaneous desire to stand out, and fit in.

On the desk, there's a framed picture of the team from last year's championship victory that Bitty can't look at without getting a lil’ teary eyed. He directs his attention out the window, instead. Unsurprisingly, the view is just the same as ever.

"Changed the decor a bit."

Bitty looks over his shoulder. Whiskey is leaning against the doorway, his hands in his pockets. There's a bit of flour dusted over his sweater in a way that Bitty has no idea how to chirp him for. His expression is almost entirely unreadable.

"It's nice," Bitty tells him carefully. Gosh. This shouldn't be so frightfully awkward. "You look well, Whiskey."

"I'm doing alright." Whiskey steps a bit further inside the room. "Actually, I'm doing better."

"Oh." Bitty tries to smile. Is he supposed to offer a follow-up question? Is this a heart to heart, or small talk? "That's… That's nice to hear."

"Excuse me, sorry." Suddenly, unexpectedly, that boy from before pops in. Ocean. He goes straight for a backpack that's sitting on the chair by the desk. "Just need my charger. I'll get out of your way."

"No, wait," Whiskey says quickly.

The boy stills. There's a moment of eye contact between the two of them that Bitty can't seem to interpret.

"You two should meet."

Whiskey turns back towards Bitty. Slowly, and very deliberately, he places an arm around the other boy's waist.

"Bitty, this is Miguel."

Oh, sweet Mary.

Bitty looks between the two boys, blinking slowly. Of course. Of  _ course. _

"Hello." Evidently, Miguel has taken it upon himself to fill out the silence. His smile is, quite frankly, lovely. "Eric Bittle, right? I've heard so much about you."

"Oh, sugar, it's  _ wonderful _ to meet you." Bitty has recovered enough to extend a hand. He's beaming, and it's probably ridiculous, but he can't quite bring himself to care. "My goodness. Hi. Are you a junior?"

"That's right." Miguel seems to take his enthusiasm in stride. He gamely shakes Bitty's hand. "Me and Whiskey had a class together, this fall."

"And now I can barely get you alone for a minute, given how the whole Haus has collectively adopted you." Whiskey doesn't sound at all bothered by this turn of events. He's got his hands back in his pockets, and he looks quite a bit more relaxed than before Miguel came in. "The Waffles are literally going to all of your games."

"Well, so are you," Miguel says, with a fond smile towards Whiskey. He quickly turns back to Bitty, though. "I'm on the water polo team."

"Isn't that something," Bitty says. And then it clicks. "Oh. Ocean, right?"

"Right." Miguel grins. "We don't really do nicknames in water polo, at least not the same way you lot insist upon, but it's actually-"

"Hey, Ocean!" 

There's someone in the doorway. It's… A Scone. One of the Scones. Bitty really must try to visit more often. The Scone looks between the three of them, his expression mildly confused, before he states his business.

"Joyo and Jader need your advice on their potato-ricotta experiment."

"I'll be right there."

Miguel glances at Whiskey for a second, and there's another moment of silent communication. Then Whiskey nods.

Miguel offers Bitty another smile.

"I'm sure we'll have the chance to talk some more, but I believe I really must see to those potatoes.”

His hand touches Whiskey's briefly on his way out. Bitty would never have noticed, unless he'd known to look for it.

Unexpectedly, Whiskey closes the door behind Miguel. He turns back towards Bitty.

For a second, they just look at one another.

"He, uh." Suddenly, Whiskey seems flustered. "He's great. So great."

"I'm glad." Bitty has rarely meant something so much in his entire life. "Am I right to assume that the team doesn't know?”

"That's right." Whiskey actually looks a bit apprehensive. "We don't… I'm not out to my family. Or to many of my friends."

"I'm just so happy that you're happy." Bitty smiles. "And, can I… He's kind of unfairly pretty, isn't he?"

Bitty would never have guessed that Whiskey could smile so gently.

"Yeah. Honestly, he's kind of everything."

"Oh, Connor." Bitty wants to hug him. That would probably be a little much. "Aren't y'all just too sweet."

"I would, um." Whiskey hesitates. He starts over. "Could you not tell Jack?"

Oh.

Bitty feels surprised. And, surprisingly, just a little bit pleased. It's been somewhat unsettling, figuring out bits and pieces of Whiskey's current life through Jack, watching the two of them connect in a way that Bitty was never able to no matter how hard he tried. Still, he's grateful to Jack for trying to help Whiskey, and even more grateful to him for succeeding. Really, he is.

But it's honestly nice to know that Whiskey trusts him with this. To know that, when it comes to this, Whiskey actually trusts him  _ more. _ Maybe it shouldn't matter, but if Bitty is completely honest with himself, it does.

"Of course." Bitty smiles. "Honestly, I'm so happy you even wanted me to know."

"I did. I really did." Whiskey runs a hand through his hair. "Bits, you… You must know that I have a lot of respect for you.”

Bitty stares at Whiskey. He looks so earnest, and there's a depth to his words that Bitty already knows he will always remember. It's one of those moments in life.

"Thank you," Bitty says warmly. "You know, I've never wanted to make you feel like you need to make choices that aren’t right for you. That you’re not comfortable with."

"No, I know." Whiskey shakes his head. "You haven't made me feel that way. I've struggled with this for a lot of other reasons, I guess. The narrative is always about coming out."

"It is. And that's something I've certainly contributed to."

Whiskey actually smiles.

"Sure. But more than that, you've… I've been in this sport for years. And with everything that's happened with you, and with Jack, it's… There's a before and an after. Things are better."

"Oh. That's… Oh." Gosh, Bitty might actually be tearing up a little. When, exactly, did Whiskey grow up so much? "I'm so glad you think so."

"I believe it goes a little beyond my personal opinion," Whiskey says plainly. He's still smiling. It is, quite frankly, unsettling. "Should we, um. I think the Scones might die a little if you helped them with those potatoes. In a good way.”

"Oh, I'd love to cook with those sweet boys." Bitty manages a slight grin. "You know… I almost thought Miguel was a Scone, too. Your boy's not really built for hockey, but he just fits in so well, I didn't know what to make of him."

"You sure  _ you _ wanna talk about being built for hockey?" Whiskey chirps. He sounds almost playful. "I wouldn't, if I were you."

"Hey, now," Bitty admonishes cheerfully. "What happened to having lots of respect for me? Let's go back to that."

"Why don't we go back to the kitchen, instead?" Whiskey suggests. "I kind of need to check on the oven."

"Of course," Bitty agrees quickly. Obviously, the oven needs to take priority. "Is there, um, any chance you could remind me which Scone is Jader? I  _ think _ I know, but…"

"Jaden Brant," Whiskey supplies readily. "Tall one. In your defense, he's pretty much joined at the hip with Joyo."

"He is, isn't he? Those two…?"

Whiskey smiles.

"Yeah. Those two." He looks away for a moment. "And that's… They're coming in as freshmen, immediately knowing they'll be accepted. No hesitation."

"That's so wonderful."

Whiskey looks at Bitty again.

"You did that," he says simply. "You know that, right?"

"No, I'm…" Dear lord, he's going to cry again. "Their decision to be open can't be only because of little ol' me. It can’t.”

"Maybe not only," Whiskey concedes. "But they chose Samwell for a reason. They knew they'd be safe here."

"Well. That is nice." Bitty wipes at his eyes. "Dear me, I'm… We should… Oven?"

Whiskey nods. His expression is soft in a way that Bitty can't quite put into words.

"Come on. There are literal and figurative scones to attend to."

As they're leaving the room, Bitty feels brave enough for one final, careful question.

"You actually bake?"

"I know," Whiskey says. He sounds… Relaxed. Content, even. "It's not bad. Feels like I'm doing something nice for everyone. You know?"

"Yes," Bitty agrees eagerly. This day is already turning into so much more than he could ever have hoped for. "Believe me, Whiskey. I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all. there is only one update left. _there is only one update left I'm-_
> 
> I've finally ~~found an excuse to~~ gotten the opportunity to include Jojo and Jader's full names! which means the Scones are, finally, properly introduced: Nathan "Pips" Piper, Joseph "Joyo" Lyons and Jaden "Jader" Brant. as for Joyo and Jader, I know there's barely any actual content about them other than Joyo taking arts classes and Jader being tall, which is why I'd highly encourage you to project the _shit_ out of every bit of that. one tall, one tiny. piggyback rides. "so can I tag along to the pottery studio and just watch you work, I like doing my homework there, hey imagine if we kissed and you got like clay on my face and in my hair that'd be so stupid haha.. unless-"
> 
> they're sweet. Pips chirps them mercilessly.
> 
> next up: it's the end, it's the actual end. my god. I should have it ready sometime in the next week. there are a lot of things in it, because endings might be my favourite thing to write, but one thing you can definitely expect is quite a bit of Whiskey and Miguel.


	26. know where we stand

Throughout his five years in professional hockey, Connor Whisk has been called a great many things.

During his rookie season with the Pittsburgh Penguins, the adjective most frequently used by ESPN was  _ promising. _ (Editor’s note: we’ve counted. Yes, we’re nerds.) However, soon after Whisk’s abrupt trade to the newly minted Seattle Kraken,  _ sensational  _ and _ unprecedented _ quickly started climbing the charts. It truly seemed like Whisk had found himself perfectly at home as a rising star on a young and fiercely untamed NHL expansion team, full of players with nothing to lose, yet so much to prove.

At least, that was the way things appeared.

Whisk suggests meeting at a quiet coffee place in Pioneer Square. He’s already waiting outside when I arrive (and it should be noted that I'm at least ten minutes early). Whisk's handshake is firm, his shirt is completely lacking in wrinkles without a single button undone, and there's something carefully proper in his manners as we exchange pleasantries and order coffee.

We don't have an abundance of time, which is why I get right into it almost before we're seated. What’s his opinion on the current standings? If the Kraken do make the playoffs again, like most experts have assumed, what will be their strategy for staying in the game longer, this time? And what’s changed for the Kraken, during these last couple of seasons, that have enabled them to become such a force to be reckoned with so soon after the team’s very foundation?

Whisk, who isn't necessarily known for taking pleasure in excessive attention from the media, seems surprisingly at ease with my onslaught of questions.

“We’ve worked really hard as a team to get to this point, slowly but surely. It may look like a sudden breakthrough from an outside perspective, I guess, but that’s very far from how we’ve experienced it. Although, I’ll be the first to admit that those first couple of seasons in Seattle were tough. Extremely tough. We were fighting so hard every single day, trying to get some semblance of proper teamwork, trying to get our plays to work, get anything to work, really. A lot of the guys were rookies, and many of us who weren’t had been pretty shocked by our trades. We did alright, for a new team, but we all knew that we should be doing better. That was the thing, really – we all felt that we could be so much more. Maybe, if we had believed that a little bit less, things might not have felt so hopeless at the time.”

Whisk speaks with a familiarly serious expression. Some of my fellow sports journalists have pronounced him  _ subdued, _ and  _ stiff, _ and on one memorable occasion,  _ unemotional.  _ Yet as we continue to chat about his teammates over a second cup of coffee, and Whisk goes into detail about what the Kraken’s recent achievements have meant for each of them, those descriptors couldn’t be further from the picture Whisk paints. Connor Whisk is clearly compassionate. Effortlessly earnest. Irresistibly determined.

"Last season, when we made it to the playoffs for the first time, that was such an important milestone. It proved to us that we’d had it right, all along. That as a team, we could be capable of anything. And I think, especially for the older guys who’d uprooted the lives of their families after their trades, getting that recognition from the whole league was so important. It’s definitely helped us feel like we have every reason to go into each game with that much more confidence, this season. Our plays are bigger, bolder and braver, and it’s really been paying off. This year, the goal is to make sure that energy lasts us not only all the way to the playoffs, but much further beyond.”

Whisk speaks about his teammates with both respect and compassion. It’s really quite obvious just how he's earned himself the title of Assistant Captain. And on the subject of leadership – is there any truth to the retirement rumours surrounding the Kraken’s current Captain, Donald “Ducky” Rodriguez? And would Connor Whisk agree with the consensus among both supporters and sports media, that he is practically guaranteed to inherit the title?

It's the first time since the start of our conversation that I find a certain amount of evasiveness in Whisk's answer.

"It's difficult to say. Every player has their own journey, and I can't speak for Ducky when it comes to his thoughts on possible retirement. As for my own feelings on the subject, I'd prefer it if Ducky just stayed in the game forever." Whisk laughs. "Really, I would. Ducky probably wouldn't have described his trade from the Aeros to the Kraken as the best thing that ever happened to him, back when it all went down, but it was honestly one of the best things that could've happened to me. I had looked up to Ducky for a long time, and having such an experienced player join us made an enormous difference for a lot of us who were relatively new to the game. We've had a great run together in Seattle, and I know Ducky has talked at length about how rewarding it's been for him to captain this team, especially at this point in his career. And honestly, I can't even really think about what might happen after his eventual retirement. I just can't. I guess I'm just trying to focus on the now, one game at a time, until the end of this season. That's as far as I'm allowing myself to think."

Of course, on the subject of the Houston Aeros, I must ask about the rumour that seems to circle back around every so often without ever being properly addressed. It's time we all knew, once and for all. Did Connor Whisk, during his time as a free agent, really decline an offer from the Houston Aeros? If so, when? And, perhaps most importantly, why?

"No, I did." Avid Aeros supporters will be pleased to know that Whisk has the decency to look quite apologetic. "It was during my time in the NCAA. I found it a very interesting offer, but ultimately, it just wasn't the right time for me. I'm sure it would've been a journey that was rewarding in other ways than the path I'm on, now. But sometimes, you've got to go with your heart, and my heart was very much still in Massachusetts with the Samwell team. I was very lucky to be able to make that decision and still have such great opportunities to play professionally after graduation. That was never something I took for granted, when I made that call."

Before we run out of coffee, and more importantly out of time, I remember to ask about Whisk’s tattoos. As frequent readers of Sports Illustrated will be well aware, he has two, both on his upper right arm. According to my quite extensive knowledge of Whisk’s frankly limited media appearances, he has never once commented on them.

Evidently, they're not some big secret. Whisk readily rolls up his sleeve.

“The first one,  _ got your back, _ is a saying from my college hockey team. It’s about always looking out for your teammates on and off the ice. My time on the Samwell team really meant a lot to me, I was fortunate enough to play alongside incredible NCAA players like Eric Bittle, Will Poindexter and Nathan Piper. I learned so much, both about hockey and about myself. A lot of the guys actually got the exact same tattoo at some point, without any of us really talking about it. It caused a bit of unintended comedy at our last reunion.”

The second tattoo,  _ know where we stand, _ is placed just a few inches below the first.

“That one is more personal. It's about having trust and faith in those I love, about making sure they always know how much they mean to me. I'm a somewhat private person, I guess, but anyone close to me could tell you that it's very important for me to make sure that my feelings are known.”

Private is certainly a word that comes to mind. Whisk doesn't agree to many interviews, and his fans have long given up hope of getting more than one or two TV appearances per season, post-game interviews not included. He's on Twitter, as is the whole Kraken rooster, but his activity is mostly limited to retweets of various sports accounts. His instagram feed? Almost exclusively pictures of his aquarium.

At the mention of aquatic creatures, Whisk’s expression brightens.

“My housemate actually took this amazing picture of our axolotl a while back, I have to show you. Look at this magnificent queen.”

Somewhere between several anecdotes about Whisk’s certifiably adorable pets, and a tangent about his commitment to supporting organisations working towards marine conservation, we do finally run out of time. As we say our goodbyes, I’m reminded once again of Whisk’s polite, proper manners, a stark contrast to his somewhat unfeeling reputation. But if one thing’s for certain, it’s that Connor Whisk is anything but unfeeling. He’s reserved, yes, and perhaps somewhat reluctant to put his innermost thoughts and feelings on display. But he’s certainly an impressively focused athlete, one who has proven time and time again to have an admirable commitment to supporting his teammates, on and off the ice.

I can only imagine the regret that must be felt over in Pittsburgh. Seattle, meanwhile, has every reason to celebrate. It’s really something, given how much Whisk has already achieved, that he still gives off the energy of someone who’s got so far to go. The question is, just how far is that going to get him, in the end?

Will he be remembered only as a key factor in the foundation of Seattle’s so-far successful expansion endeavour, or could he be a true star player in the making, one on the verge of creating a legacy that will last well beyond a time and a place?

Only time will tell.

  
  


Whiskey lets the door fall shut behind him. He takes a deep, steadying breath.

There’s a familiar suitcase that’s been left right in the hallway. Whiskey quickly toes off his shoes and walks past it. Ah, there’s a t-shirt. And a bit further, a pair of jeans. Then socks.

Whiskey follows the enticing trail of clothes into the living room. He passes by the mantelpiece, where his Samwell Men's Hockey Captain's plaque sits right in the center, with his Art Ross Trophy from last season over on the side.

Out in the kitchen, he finds a pair of boxer briefs. The double doors out to the patio are wide open. Whiskey eagerly steps through them, his feet quickly carrying him across the patio, over to-

Yes.

Oh, yes. Finally.

Miguel breaks through the surface of the water just as Whiskey makes it to the side of the pool. Immediately, Miguel offers him a wide smile. He looks so perfectly relaxed, back in his pool, in  _ their  _ home. In the nude.

God, he’s so beautiful.

“Water’s warm,” Miguel greets him softly. He trails his fingertips across the surface of it, almost like he’s reacquainting himself with how it feels. “Much more pleasant than the Atlantic, let me tell you.”

“I’ll take that as an invitation.”

“Oh, please. Come here.” Miguel’s tone turns impatient as Whiskey pulls off his shirt, only to take a moment to fold it. “Fuck, just, come  _ here.  _ I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too. So much.”

Whiskey willingly abandons his attempts to keep his clothes from getting wrinkles. He makes quick work of his pants and underwear, before he lets himself slip into the water. Immediately, he gathers Miguel up in his arms.

It’s not a languid kiss, by any means. Being separated for eight fucking weeks will do that to you. Miguel kisses Whiskey like he’s been trying to breathe underwater for months, like Whiskey is his fresh gulp of oxygen, his moment of clarity. He kisses Whiskey like Whiskey is his very reason for breathing.

Which is almost funny, given that Miguel has been doing quite a bit of breathing underwater, lately.

“Did you get bulkier?” Miguel murmurs against Whiskey's bare skin. He’s trailing his fingertips along Whiskey’s forearms. “You’re kinda firm, here. I like it.”

“Maybe a little.”

Whiskey kisses the top of his head. He lets his hands travel lower, let's his fingertips glide across Miguel's ribcage over the ink that matches Whiskey's own, four little words with so much meaning. He grins as he reaches Miguel's ass and let's his hands come to an abrupt stop. God, it's been much too long.

“S'okay. You're here, now.” Miguel shivers pleasantly from Whiskey’s touches. “Practice run over?”

“No, Angela called me in. She needed me to sign off on the final draft of that article.”

“Sports Illustrated?” Miguel recalls curiously. “How bad was it?”

“Actually, it was… Fine.” Whiskey thinks back on the feature. “Better than I expected. There’s even a couple of paragraphs where that reporter’s made me sound, I don't know. Oddly sweet.”

“You  _ are  _ sweet.” Miguel smiles fondly. “Is it really so bad, if people find out?”

“I suppose not,” Whiskey agrees reluctantly. He lets himself give Miguel's ass another indulgent squeeze. “And they actually included my off-hand mention of my housemate, this time. So that’s something.”

“Good job,” Miguel says with a flushed grin. “Angela must be so pleased.”

Angela Johanson, PR and communications officer for the Seattle Kraken, had indeed been extremely pleased.

Her strategy had really worked for them, so far, which was why Whiskey wasn’t too inclined to argue with it. “If you want to hide anything from those vultures in the media,” Angela had told him during one of his earliest PR briefings, “You’ve got to do it in plain sight.”

Of course, there had been other parts of Angela’s PR strategies that Whiskey had found himself arguing with. Especially during their very first conversation with one another, before he’d had the chance to inform anyone in Seattle of his situation.

It had been right after the trade – hours after, literally. Whiskey was still in Pittsburgh, both physically and mentally. And, fine, Whiskey had maybe already started to realise that Pittsburgh wasn’t completely right for him. It was a very good team, but they were so swamped with talent, and maybe fighting his way to the top of that rooster should’ve been an exciting, motivating challenge, but it wasn’t. It just  _ wasn’t. _ Whiskey had spent his whole rookie year feeling like he was working against his own team. He had known there was a fair chance that he would get traded. He wasn’t even entirely opposed to the idea.

But Seattle? The Kraken? A team that, for all intents and purposes, didn’t even so much as exist, yet?

“We’re rolling out a whole media package,” Angela had informed him over the phone – as soon as Whiskey’s very first chit-chat with management was over, they’d switched him right over to PR. “There is an enormous amount of buzz right now, given that you guys are the very first players we’re signing. I’ve got some talking points to go over, and then you’re going live on channel four tonight at-”

“Hold on,” Whiskey had cut in. “It’s, I’m not… I don’t usually do many interviews.”

“Oh, you will now.” Angela actually had the audacity to sound cheerful. “We’re right in the middle of establishing our whole brand, and profiling our players in the media is an incredibly important part of that. I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”

“I’m not too interested in being a… A media profile.” Whiskey had tried his best not to panic completely. Really, he had. “I don’t… I’m fairly protective of my private life.”

“Well. You’ll certainly need to share the overall gist of it.” Angela had sounded almost confused. “We need you to be approachable, Connor. Likeable. You’re young, and very handsome, and incredibly talented. We’ve been hoping to have a broad interest in this franchise, all different age groups and so on, and right now, you’re looking a lot like our best bet to attract some real interest from young girls and women. We’re not going to miss that chance.”

“Look," Whiskey had told her flatly. "I’m going to tell you something in confidence, alright? In confidence. This needs to stay between you and me.”

“Okay? Connor, I’m not sure if-”

“I have a boyfriend.”

Angela had been quiet for well over five seconds.

“Oh,” she’d said. To her credit, there had been something like embarrassment in her tone. “I see. Of course, that’s not an issue. Not at all. We’ve done a lot of groundwork about the values of this organisation, Connor, and I want you to know that you’re going to be completely safe with us.”

“Right. Thank you.”

“And,” Angela had added, just a bit hopefully. “If you would choose to be open about that, I can assure you that you would have our full support to-”

“No,” Whiskey had interrupted. “No. I’m not going to.”

“Right.” Angela had paused. “Okay. We’d really be prepared to back you up, you know. It might cause a bit of a media frenzy, and earn us some frankly disgusting press, but we’d be ready to take that on.”

“Yes, a media frenzy sure seems like the last thing on your wishlist.” Whiskey hadn’t bothered to keep his anger out of his voice. “In any case, I’m not going to cause it for you. I’m extremely protective of my private life, and for very good reason. And I’m not going to go live on channel four, today or any other day.”

“Right, okay," Angela had said quickly. "Okay.”

There was a longer moment of silence.

“I hear you.” Angela’s tone had shifted significantly. Somewhere in the background, Whiskey thought he could hear the sound of papers being shuffled around. “I think… Well, won’t need this anymore. Or that. Hm. Let’s see.”

Whiskey managed something of a breath. He was feeling slightly calmer, although honestly not particularly regretful. Really, he’d be more than prepared to fight the Kraken’s entire PR department, if that’s what it took.

“Look.” Angela had apparently found something to say again. “I’ve seen your tapes, Connor.”

Whiskey frowned slightly.

“Okay?”

“You’re very good.” Angela’s tone was quite careful. “Very, very good. I used to play, you know, back in high school. You’re fast, and you play very smart. I’ve heard the way our head coach talks about your technique, and about your adaptability on the ice. Quite frankly, he won’t shut up about you.”

“Is any of this supposed to make me like you better?”

“That’d be nice,” Angela had said calmly, and okay, she was certainly brave. Whiskey had to give her that. “Most importantly, though, you should take me seriously when I say that we’re fully expecting you to be one of the faces of this franchise.”

“On the ice, sure, but that doesn’t-”

“And,” Angela cut in, “That means the media is going to be all over you. Even if you won’t let us schedule you for appearances, they’re going to find something to write about anyway. Really, I’m sure they’d be thrilled to publish all sorts of assumptions and speculation, especially if there’s nothing else out there to contradict them.”

Whiskey wasn’t sure what to say to that.

Angela actually had a point, was the thing.

“I understand the need to keep your professional and private lives separate,” Angela had continued. “And, Connor, I’d really like to help you with that. Because you’re going to need help. If we could work together and figure out a level of public visibility that you could actually be comfortable with, that would definitely keep a lot of so-called journalists from spinning a narrative that we have no control over.”

“Right.” Whiskey hadn’t needed to hesitate much longer. “I understand that. Honestly, I’ve seen the way certain publications go after some of our big names here in Pittsburgh. I’d hate to face something like that without a solid plan for how to handle it.”

“We don’t want you to feel like you’re facing anything on your own, or without a plan.” Angela had sounded quite hopeful once more. “Connor, I… I’m sorry if I came on too strong, just now, and demanded too much from you. We’re genuinely thrilled that you will be joining us in Seattle. I hope that you and I can figure out a media strategy that actually works for you."

“That sounds good.” Surprisingly, Whiskey actually meant it. “I, uh. This is all extremely important to me. I appreciate that you’re making an effort to see my perspective.”

“Of course.” Angela’s tone had been warm. “My job is ultimately about supporting you, you know.”

“Well.” Whiskey had actually smiled. “I suppose I’m glad to have you on the team, then.”

“That’s my line, isn’t it?” Angela had chirped pleasantly. “So. I’m cancelling with channel four. Let’s talk about alternatives for how to make your first impression.”

Whiskey hadn’t quite understood, back then, just how invaluable Angela was going to prove herself during his time in Seattle.

He also would never have guessed that, over a series of meetings where the two of them had drafted contingency plans for various hypothetical scenarios of Whiskey being outed, as well as quite a few bottles of increasingly expensive red wine, he and Angela would actually end up with something not entirely unlike a friendship.

"Angela says hi, by the way," Whiskey tells Miguel presently. They've made it out of the water – except, Miguel's already dived back in. Whiskey has sat himself down on the edge of the pool, content to stick his feet in and just watch Miguel. "She practically demanded that we have her over for dinner, this weekend, when I mentioned you were coming back home."

"Oh, I'd love to see Angela." Miguel dips beneath the surface, just briefly. "You could make those dark chocolate brownies for dessert."

Whiskey smiles.

"You've missed my desserts."

"Come on, try again." Miguel grins. "You're so close."

"Ah. You've missed my  _ chocolate _ desserts."

Miguel rolls his eyes. He disappears back underwater with a playful splash.

Whiskey smiles softly as he watches Miguel swim down, down towards the bottom of the pool. He still remembers the first time Miguel took him swimming, remembers how his breath hitched at the sight of Miguel moving in the water, his lithe, flexible body completely in control. It was, and honestly still is, the most beautiful thing Whiskey has ever seen.

There's a picture of the two of them that hangs framed in their bedroom. It was taken the summer before last, during a trip they took to see Miguel's family. Miguel is looking at the camera, and his smile is the one that Whiskey loves the most – it's soft and warm and just so lovely. His brown eyes are wonderfully bright in the sunlight. He looks beautiful, and full of life and love. He looks perfect.

In the picture, Whiskey isn't looking at the camera. Instead, he is looking at Miguel. He's smiling, too, and although his smile isn't anywhere near as radiant as Miguel's, it's definitely gentle and content. He looks happy.

They both look happy.

The picture sometimes makes Whiskey wonder what others see, when they look at the two of them. Miguel, so full of energy and life, always bright with excitement and emotion, easily allowing his feelings to flow freely in any direction like a rippling, playful wave, his world a whole sea of excitement. And next to him, Whiskey. So purposeful, and focused, and bold. Always serious and earnest, making every decision with exact precision like he's carving his whole world out of ice.

And yet they come together so perfectly, almost as if they were always meant to find one another.

Miguel breaks through the surface again, with a bigger splash this time.

"I almost forgot," he says, a little breathlessly. "Whiskey. I do actually use Twitter, you know."

Whiskey frowns slightly.

"I don't."

"And as much as I love you, you're not the only account on there." Miguel rolls his eyes. "You Can Play made a pretty interesting announcement, today. Did you see it?"

Ah. Quickly, Whiskey looks away.

"They've received another one of those big donations," Miguel continues. He sounds delighted. "And still no sender, can you believe it? Funny, how this  _ always _ happens right after you win another big game."

Whiskey ducks his head, grinning. It's only happened a handful of times, that Whiskey has managed to quietly donate a few thousand dollars to You Can Play without Miguel connecting the dots. Ever since that first time, when You Can Play had announced their deepest gratitude to an anonymous donor the very same week that Whiskey had received his signing bonus, and Miguel had  _ immediately _ texted Whiskey a string of cash emojis and a question mark, it's become something of a game between them.

"Fine. You win this time."

"I win  _ every _ time." Miguel grins, too. "I guess I should just be grateful that you haven't splurged too much on another ridiculous welcome-home present. I'm still getting over the shock from last time."

"You love the pool," Whiskey reminds him softly. He clears his throat. "I, uh. I might actually have gotten you something."

Miguel stills.

"Please tell me it's something that fits inside the house, this time."

"Well..." Whiskey knows that it's better if he just sticks to his plan of showing Miguel, when he gets the chance. They've been making loose plans for a trip to Boston, anyhow, and Miguel definitely won't mind going back to the New England Aquarium. Especially when he finds out that they'll be attending the opening ceremony for the aquarium's new, privately funded manatee conservation program. "It's not really something you can take home. But I know you're going to love it."

"Okay, mister." Miguel looks a little bit weary. "God, you've got that look in your eyes. I'm getting nervous."

"You'll love it," Whiskey repeats firmly. He smiles. "And, uh, speaking of love. We got a letter from Dex and Nursey, yesterday."

Miguel's eyebrows shoot up.

"A letter? Don't you guys text, like, a lot?"

"They've  _ finally _ set a date."

"Oh," Miguel exclaims. His smile widens. "Oh, that is  _ so _ exciting! We're going to a wedding!"

"We are, yeah." Whiskey smiles, too. "I haven't RSVP'd, yet, but…"

"No, no, of course we're going." Miguel is still beaming. "Wow.  _ Wow. _ Do you know what colors they're doing? Ooh, and what's their venue?"

"I don't… We can read their invitation together." Whiskey watches Miguel for a moment. "You like weddings."

Miguel pauses briefly.

"I like seeing our friends happy." He smiles. "Whiskey, you know that I don't expect… I've never really thought that I would be married."

"Me neither." Whiskey isn't quite sure how to phrase his next question. "But, just because you didn't think it was in the cards… I mean. That's not necessarily the same thing as, you know. As not wanting to?"

"I guess not," Miguel agrees easily. Still, he shakes his head. "Honestly, it's really not something I've ever dreamed of, the way some people do. My choice of career was always going to be a big commitment for me, one that would certainly make things complicated in the romance department. But then you came along, and we've managed to build this life together, and it's just… It's so perfect. I don't need anything more."

"I know." Whiskey returns his smile. "I love the life we've built together, too. But, I'm just… Well. Actually. I've been thinking."

Slowly, Miguel's expression shifts.

"You have?"

"It's not…" Whiskey begins, only to pause. He needs to get this right. "It's something I'm still thinking about. I don't have all the right answers, yet."

"Okay." Miguel tilts his head. "Whiskey, did… Did something happen? To make you question yourself?"

Whiskey's smile softens. It's really something, how Miguel knows him so well.

"Kind of," he admits. "You know I went home, recently?"

"Yeah. For a funeral, right?"

"Exactly. My one of my uncles passed."

"Right." Miguel is nodding, even though his expression is somewhat confused. "I don't… You said you two weren't very close?"

"No, we weren't," Whiskey agrees. "But still, I… It got me thinking."

"About marriage?"

"About death." Whiskey almost smiles when Miguel's eyebrows shoot up. "I promise this isn't constantly on my mind, okay? It's just something I've kept coming back to, recently. Something I haven't ever thought about before."

"Okay." Miguel watches him in apparent confusion. "Whiskey, I'm sorry. You've lost me."

Whiskey takes a deep breath.

"When we die, I want them to bury me next to you."

Miguel is quiet for a moment.

"Oh," he says. His tone is careful. "I… Oh."

"And I don't think that would be possible," Whiskey continues. He actually smiles. "Unless… You know.”

"Wait. Really?" Miguel actually manages to sound equal parts serious, and reproachful. It's really quite something. "Connor. I may never have dreamed of the perfect proposal, but if  _ this _ is your idea of one, death might greet you a whole lot sooner than you think."

"No, it's not," Whiskey says quickly. "It's… I haven't finished thinking about this, not yet. I mostly feel like I don't really know what I should want."

"Maybe what you  _ should _ want isn't the right question." Miguel sounds slightly more calm. He pauses to actually think for a moment. "You know, I'm… I hadn't really thought about that, either. But you… I think you have a point. You really do."

For a moment, they just look at one another.

"Well," Whiskey says lightly. It feels like something significant has shifted between them. It feels  _ big. _ "I guess we'll see?"

"Yeah." Miguel seems to have found his smile again. "It wouldn't have to be an extravagant affair. You'd hate that."

"I would," Whiskey agrees. "But, at the same time… We wouldn't necessarily need to keep it just between you and me."

"I like that." Miguel tilts his head again. "You know, if… If we did? The world would find out, eventually. When we're gone, if nothing else."

"Yeah. I know."

"I don't know how I feel about that. I'll need some more time." Miguel's tone is unusually thoughtful. "But you would be okay with it?"

"I… I guess." Whiskey pauses for a moment. Suddenly, he remembers everything Angela's told him about the importance of taking control over the narrative. And honestly? Just like always, she has a point. "Except, if that is the path we take, maybe we should actually make sure that we have a say in how this story gets told? Not anytime soon, but, I don't know. At some point down the line."

"Right." Miguel is nodding, even though he still looks quite contemplative. "That's probably not a decision we should rush into."

"There's no need. We can figure it out at whatever pace feels right." Whiskey offers him another smile. "Thank you, by the way."

"For what?"

"For listening to me. For going through all of this with me."

"That's not something you need to thank me for." Miguel's smile softens into the one Whiskey loves best. "It's, you know. Sickness and health, good times and bad times. No matter what we tell the world, we both know that's what this is."

"Yeah," Whiskey agrees softly.

Sometimes, he still can't believe that they got here in the end. He smiles, helplessly.

"That's right. You're exactly right."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god. oh my _god._ I can't believe this story has actually, officially ended.
> 
> you know, life is complicated. you make a lot of choices, often without knowing all the consequences, and there are so many things to ponder and question. but I have found that it helps a lot when you have friends who will always have your back, and when you know exactly where you stand.
> 
> I think it's fitting that this story started with Dex, but ends with Whiskey. their journeys have parallels, but Dex was always ahead. it feels good to have taken them both to a time and place where they're each content, and loved, and happy.
> 
> thank you so much for all your enthusiasm and encouragement for this story! thank you for having such patience with my lack of an update schedule and for embracing my many, many different narrators. thank you for taking my slowly growing, helplessly soft version of Whiskey to heart, and for having so much love for my constantly expanding collection of original characters. thank you for loving Pips, and Joyo and Jader, and Beth, and Ducky, and of course Miguel.
> 
> above all, just, _thank you_ for being on this journey with me! thank you thank you _thank you_ to everyone who's reached out to me in any way about this story, you've made my day so many times. I'm going to miss this little universe, so so much, and I'm so touched by all of you who have been invested in it, too.
> 
> I hope you all get to enjoy some form of safe holiday celebrations in these strange and difficult times, and that we're about to step into a brighter tomorrow. ♡♡♡


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